LETTER XLIX

THE GREATER DREAMLAND

 

I HAVE not been to see you for some time, for I have been trying an experiment.

 

Since coming to this country I have so often seen men and women lying in a state of subjective enjoyment, of dream, if I may use the word, that I have long wanted to spend a few days alone with my interior self, in that same state. My reason for hesitating was that I feared to dream too long, and thus to lose valuable time—both yours and mine.

 

But when I expressed to the Teacher one day my desire to visit the greater dreamland lying within my own brain, also my fear that I might be slow in waking, he promised that he would come and wake me in exactly seven days of earthly time if I had not already aroused myself.

 

"For," he said, "you can set an alarm-clock in your own brain, which can always be relied upon."

 

This I knew from old experience; but I had feared that the psychic sleep might be deeper than the ordinary earthly sleep, and that the alarm-clock might not go off at the appointed time.

 

I have heard much comment, so doubtless have you, on the fact that spirits, when they return to communicate with their friends, say, as a rule, so little about their celestial life. The reason is, I fancy, that they despair of making themselves understood should they attempt to describe their existence, which is so different from that of earth.

 

Now, most souls, when they have been out some time, fall into that state of reverie, or dream, which I had so long desired to experience for myself. Some souls awake at intervals, and show an occasional interest in the things and people of the earth; but if the sleep is deep, and if the soul is willing or desirous to leave the things of the earth behind, the subconscious state may last uninterruptedly for years, or even centuries. But a soul that could stay asleep for centuries would probably be one that was living according to long rhythm, the normal rhythm of humanity.

 

So, when I went into the deep sleep, I went into it with a spell upon myself not to remain too long.

 

Oh, it was wonderful, that dream-country in my own self! The Theosophists would perhaps say that I had taken a rest in the bliss of devachan. No matter what one calls it. It was an experience worth remembering.

 

I closed my eyes and went in—in—deeper than thought, where the restless waves of life are still, and the soul is face to face with itself and with all the wonders of its own past. There is nothing but loveliness in that sleep. If one can bring back the dreams, as I did, the sojourn there is an adventure beyond comparison.

 

I went in to enjoy, and I enjoyed. I found there the simulacrum of everyone whom I had ever loved. They smiled at me, and I understood the mystery of them, and why we had been drawn together.

 

I refound, too, my old dreams of ambition, and enjoyed the fruit of all my labour on earth. It is a rosy world, that inner world of the soul, and the heart's desire is always found there. No wonder that the strenuous life of earth is oftener than not a pain and a travail, for the dream-life which follows is so beautiful that the balance must he preserved.

 

Rest! On earth you know not the meaning of the word. I rested only seven days; but so refreshed was I that, had I not other worlds to conquer, I should almost have had the courage to return to earth.

 

Do not neglect rest—you who still live the toilsome life in the sunshine. For every added hour of true rest your working capacity is increased. Have no fear. You are not wasting time when you lie down and dream. As I have said before, eternity is long. There is room for rest in the wayside inns which dot the path which the cycles tread.

 

If you want to take a long and devachanic rest—why, take it. Take it even on earth, if it seems desirable. Do not be always grubbing, even at literature. Go out and play with the squirrels, or lie by the fire and dream with the household cat. The cat that enjoys the drowsy fireside also enjoys catching mice when the mood is on her. She cannot be always hunting, neither can you.

 

Just take a dip in devachan some day, and see how refreshed you will be when you come out: Perhaps I am misusing that word "devachan," for I was never very deeply learned in the lore of Theosophy.

 

I have even heard nirvana described as a state of intense motion, so rapid that it seems motionless, like a spinning-top, or the wing of a humming-bird.

But nirvana is not for all men—not yet.

 

I have hinted at the wonders of my seven days of blissful rest, but I have not described them. How can I? A great poet once declared that there was no thought or feeling which could not be expressed in words. Perhaps he has changed his mind by this time, after being out here some sixty years.

 

As I went to rest, I commanded my soul to bring back every dream. Of course I cannot say whether some may not have escaped, any more than you can say on waking that you have or have not forgotten the deeper experiences of the night. But when I came back into the normal life of this plane that is called astral, I felt like an explorer who returns from a strange journey with wonder-tales to tell. Only I did not tell them. To whom should I relate those dreams and visions? I would not be a bore, even to "disembodied" associates. Had Lionel been here, I might have entertained him many an hour with my stories; but he is lost to me for the present.

 

And, by the way, he seems to have taken little or no devachanic rest. Is that because he was so young on coming out that he had not exhausted the normal rhythm? Probably. Had he remained out here and grown up, perhaps he also would have sought the deeper interior world. But I will not speculate, for this is a record of experiences, not of speculations. You can speculate as well as I, if you think it worth while.

 

I found in my own dreamland a fair, fair face. No, I am not going to tell you about that; it is my little secret. Of course I found many faces, but one was lovelier than all the others, and it was not the face of the Beautiful Being, either. The Beautiful Being I meet when I am wide awake. I did not encounter her as an actual presence in sleep, only the simulacrum of her. In the deeper dreamland we see only what is in our brains. Things do not exist there, only the memories of things and the imagination of them.

 

Imagination creates in this world, as in yours: it actually moulds the tenuous substance; but in the greater dreamland I do not think that we mould in substance. It is a world of light and shadow pictures, too subtle to be described.

 

Even before this experience I had gone into the memories of my own past; but I had not revelled in them, had not indulged myself to the extent of conjuring with light and shade. But, oh! what's the use? There are no words to describe it. Can you describe the perfume of a rose, as you once said yourself? Can you tell how a kiss feels? Could you even describe the emotion of fear so that one who had not felt it, by former experience in this life or some other, would know what you meant? No more can I describe the process of spiritual dreaming.

 

Revel to your heart's content in fancy, in memory, while you are still in the body, and yet I think that you will have only the shadow of a shadow of what I experienced in those seven days, the reflection of a reflection of the real dream. The reflection of a reflection! I like that phrase. It suggests a clear picture, though not a direct impression. Try dreaming, then, even on earth, and maybe you will get a reflection of a reflection of the pictured joys of the spiritual dreamland.

LETTER L
A SERMON AND A PROMISE

 

AS I have been coming to you every few days for several months, and have told stories for your amusement, may I come now and preach a sermon? I promise it shall not be long.

 

You live in a land where church spires pierce the blue of heaven, looking from the viewpoint of the clouds like the uplifted spears of an invading army—which in intent they are; so surely you have the habit of listening to sermons. The average sermon is made up mostly of advice, and mine will not differ from others in that particular. I wish to advise you, and as many other persons as you can make listen to my advice.

 

You will grant that, for one who offers counsel, I have had unusual opportunities for fitting myself to give it. In order to help you to live, I would show you the point of view of a serious and thoughtful—however imperfect—observer of the after effects of causes set in motion by dwellers upon the earth. It has been said that cause and effect are opposite and equal. Very good. Now I want to draw your attention to certain illustrations of that axiom which have come to my mind during the last few months. If I repeat one or two things which I have already said, that is no serious matter. You may have forgotten them, or missed their application to the business of preparing for the future life on this side of the gulf of death. That is a moss-grown figure of speech, "the gulf of death"; but I am writing a sermon, not a poem, and well-worn tropes are expected from the pulpit.

 

The preachers remind you every few Sundays that you have got to die some day. Do you realise it? Does your consciousness take in the fact that at any moment—to-morrow or fifty years hence— you may suddenly find yourself outside that body whose cohesive force you have become accustomed to; that you may find yourself, either alone or accompanied, in a very tenuous and light and at first not easily manageable body, with no certain power of communicating with those friends and relations whom you may see in the very room with you?

 

You have not realised it? Then get it through your consciousness. Grasp it with both hemispheres of your brain. Clutch it with the talons of your mind. You are going to die.

 

Oh, do not be alarmed! I do not mean you personally, nor that you, or any particular person, will die to-morrow, or next year; but die you must some day; and if you remind yourself of it occasionally, it will lessen the shock of the actual happening when it comes.

 

Do not brood over the thought of death. God forbid that you should read such a morbid meaning into my blunt words! But be prepared. You insure your life for so much money that your family may be provided for; but you do nothing to insure your own future peace of mind regarding your own self.

 

Remember this always: however minute are the instructions you leave for the management of your affairs after death, should you be able to look back to the earth you will find that someone has mismanaged them. So expect just that, take it as a matter of course, and learn to say, "What difference does it make?" Learn to feel that the past is past, that the future alone has possibilities for you, and that the sooner you leave other persons to manage your discarded earthly affairs the better it will be for your own tranquillity.

 

Be prepared to let go. That is the first point I wish to make.

 

Do not go out into the new life with only one eye open to the celestial planes, and the other inverted towards the images of earth. You will not get far if you do. Let go. Get away from the world just as soon as you can.

 

This may sound to some people like heartless advice, for there is no doubt that a wise spirit, looking down from the higher sphere, can, by his subtly instilled telepathic suggestions, influence for good the men and women of the earth. But there are always thousands of those who are eager to do that. The heavens above your head now are literally swarming with souls who long to take a hand in the business of earth, souls who cannot let go, who find the habit of managing other people's affairs a fascinating habit, as enthralling as that of tobacco, or opium. Again, do not call me heartless. I am blunt of speech, but I love you, men of earth. If I hurt you, it is for your good.

 

Now comes another and a most interesting point. Forget, if you can, the sins you have committed in the flesh. You cannot escape the effects of those causes; but you can avoid strengthening the tie with sin, you can avoid going back to earth self-hypnotised with the idea that you are a sinner.

 

Do not brood over sin. It is true that you can exhaust the impulse to sin by dwelling on it until your soul is disgusted; but that is a slow and an unpleasant process. The short-cut of forgetfulness is better.

 

Now I want to express an idea very difficult to express, for the reason that it will be quite new to most of you. It is this: The power of the creative imagination is stronger in men wearing their earthly bodies than it is in men (spirits) who have laid off their bodies. Not that most persons know how to use that power: they do not; the point I wish to make is that they can use it. A solid body is a resistive base, a powerful lever, from which the will can project those things conjured by the imagination. That is, I believe, the real reason why Masters retain their physical bodies. The trained mind, robed in the tenuous matter of our world, is stronger than the untrained mind robed in dense matter; but the Masters still robed in flesh can command a legion of angels.¹

 

1 He has said that they build freely in that world through the creative imagination; but we must remember how tenuous and easily handled is the matter which they use.—ED.

 

This is by way of preface to the assertion that as you on earth picture your future life to be, so it will be, limited always by the power with which you back your will, and by the possibility of subtle matter to take the mould you give it, and that possibility is almost unlimited.

 

Will to progress after death, and you will progress; will to learn, and you will learn; will to return to the earth after a time to take up a special work, and you will return and take up that work.

 

Karma is an iron law, yes; but you are the creator of karma.

 

Above all things, do not expect—which is to demand uncon­sciousness and annihilation. You cannot annihilate the unit of force which you are, but you can by self-suggestion put it to sleep for ages. Go out of life with the determination to retain consciousness, and you will retain it.

 

When the time comes for you to enter that rest which a certain school of thought has called devachan, you will enter it; but that time will not be immediately after you go out.

 

On finally reaching that state you will, as a matter of course, relive in dream your former earthly life and assimilate its experiences; but by that time you will have got rid of the desire personally to take part, as a spirit, in the lives of those you have left behind.

 

Do not, while still on earth, invoke the spirits of the dead. They may be busy elsewhere, and you may be strong enough to call them away from their own business to attend to yours unwillingly.

 

You who write for me, I want to thank you for never calling me. You let me come always at my own time, and let me say what I wish to say without confusing my thought by either questions or comments.

 

You of the earth who are still upon the earth may find your departed friends when you come out here, if they have not already put on another body. Meantime, let them perform the work of the state in which they are.

 

You who write for me will remember that the first time I came you did not even know that I had left the earth. I found you in a passive mood, and wrote a message signed by a symbol whose special meaning was unknown to you, but which I knew would be immediately recognised by those in whom you were likely to confide. That was a most fortunate beginning, for it gave you confidence in the genuineness of my communications.

 

But I said that I would write only a sermon to night, so I will now pronounce the blessing and depart. I shall return, however. This is not the last meeting of the season. Later.

 

One word more before I go to my other work. If you had urgently called me during that week which I spent in rest, you might have had the power to cut short a most interesting and valuable experience. So the final word, after the benediction of this sermon, is: Do not be too egotistically insistent, even with the so-called dead.

 

If your need is great, the souls who love you may feel it and come to you of their own accord. This is often illustrated in the earth life, among those whose psychic pores are open.

LETTER LI
THE APRIL OF THE WORLD

 

HAVING told you last week that you must die, according to the jargon of the earth, I now want to assure you that you can never really die at all; that you are as immortal as the angels, as immortal as God Himself.

 

No, that is not a contradiction.

 

I have spoken before of immortality: it was always a favourite theme of mine; but since my association with the Beautiful Being it has become for me an exultant consciousness.

 

The Beautiful Being lives in eternity, as We fancy that we live in time. Will you write down here another of that angel's chants?

 

When you see me in the green trees and in the green light under trees, know that you are near to me:

 

When you hear my voice in the silence, know that I speak for you.

 

The immortal loves to speak to the immortal in the mortal, and there is joy in calling to the joy which dozes in the heart of a soul of earth.

 

When joy is awake, the soul is awake.

 

You look for God in the forms of men and women, and sometimes you find Him there;

 

But you look for me in your own soul; the deeper the gaze, the fairer the vision.

 

Yes, I am in Nature, and I am in you, when you look for me there; For Nature is dual, and the half you carry within you.

 

All things are one and dual—even I, and that is why you may find me.

 

Oh, the charm of being free, to wander at will round the earth and heaven, and through the souls of men!

 

I am lighter than the thistle-down, but more enduring than the stars:

 

The permanent is impalpable, and only the impalpable endures.

The road is not long which leads to the castle of dreams; the far­
away is nearer than next-door, but only the dreamer finds it.

 

When labour is light, the pay is sure; when the days are hard, their reward is tardy.

 

Be glad, and I will repay you.

 

I would write my name on the leaves of your heart, but only the angels can read the writing.

 

Who bears my unknown name on the petals of his heart is accepted among the angels for the flower he is; his perfume reaches heaven.

 

There is pollen in the heart, child of earth, and it fructifies the flowers of faith;

 

There is faith in the soul, child of time, and it bears the seeds of all things.

 

The seasons come and the seasons go, but the springtime is eternal. I can find that in you which was lost in the April of the world.

LETTER LII
A HAPPY WIDOWER

 

I MET a charming woman the other night, quite different from anyone else I have met heretofore. She was no less a woman because she weighed perhaps a milligramme instead of one hundred and thirty pounds.

 

I was passing along a quiet road, and saw her standing by a fountain. Who had created the fountain? I cannot say. There are sculptors in this world who mould for the love of the work more beautiful fountains than your sculptors mould for money. The joy of the workman in his work! Why, that is heaven, is it not?

 

I saw a beautiful woman standing by a fountain; and as I love beauty, whether in fountains or in women, I paused to regard both.

 

The lovelier of the two looked up and laughed.

 

"I was wishing for someone to talk to," she said. "What a wonderful world this is!"

 

"I am glad you find it so," I answered. "I also do not agree with the old woman who declared that heaven was a much overrated place."

"And then?"

"You don't remember me, do you?" she asked. "No. Have we met before?"

"We have. And, of course, you could remember me, if you should try."

Then I recalled who she was. We had met some years before on one of my journeys to New York, and I had talked with her about the mysteries of life and death, of will and destiny.

"I have tested many of the things you told me," she went on, "and I have found them true."

"What things, for instance?"

"First and most important, that man may create his own environment."

"You can easily demonstrate that here," I said. "But how long have you been in this world?"

"Only a few months."

"And how did you come out?" "I died of too much joy."

"That was a pleasant death and an unusual one," I said, smiling. "How did it happen?"

"The doctor said that I died of heart-failure. For years I had wanted a certain thing, and when it came to me suddenly, the realisation was too much for me."

"Why, I suddenly realised that I had let slip the body through which I might have enjoyed this thing I had attained."

 

"And then?"

 

"I remembered that I was not my body, that I was my consciousness; and as long as that was intact, I was intact. So I went right on enjoying the attainment."

 

"Without a regret?" "Yes."

 

"You are indeed a philosopher," I said. "And though I do not want to force your confidence, yet I would be much interested to know your story."

 

"It would seem absurd to some people," she answered, "and even to me it seems strange sometimes. But I had always wanted money, a great deal of money. One day a certain person died, leaving me a fortune. It was that joy which was too strong for me."

 

"And how do you enjoy the fortune here?"

 

"In several ways. My husband and I had planned a beautiful house—if we should ever have the money. We had planned to travel, too, and to see the interesting places of the world. We also had two or three friends who loved to create beauty in the arts, and who were hampered in their work by lack of means. Now, my husband, being my sole heir, came into the fortune immediately I passed out. So I enjoy everything with him and through him just the same as if I were actually in the flesh."

"And he knows that you are present?"

"Yes. We had each promised not to desert the other in life or death. I have kept my word, and he knows that I have kept it."

"And where is he now?"

"Travelling."

"Alone?"

"Except for me."

"In what place is he?"

"In Egypt at this time."

I drew nearer.

"Can you show him to me?" I asked.

"Yes, I think so. Come along."

It is needless to say that I did not require a second invitation.

We found the man—a handsome fellow about thirty years of age-sitting alone in a luxurious bedroom in Cairo. It seems to be my destiny to have strange experiences in Cairo I

The young man was reading as we entered the room; but he looked up at once, for he felt that she was there. I do not think he perceived me. "My darling," he said, aloud, "I have seen the Pyramids!"

She placed her hand upon his forehead, and he closed his eyes, the better to see her.

Then his hand moved to the table, he opened his eyes again, and took up paper and pencil. I saw her guide his hand, which wrote:

"I have brought a friend with me. Can you see him?" "No."

The man spoke aloud, she communicating through the pencil in his hand and by his interior perception of her.

"Then never mind," she wrote; "he is not an egotist. I only wanted him to see you. I have told him how happy I am—and now he sees why."

"This journey of mine is an unalloyed delight," the man said. "That is because I am with you," she replied. "Were you with me at the Pyramids to-day?"

"Yes, though I cannot see very well in the sunshine. I have been there, however, and have seen them by moonlight. But where are you going from here?"

"Where do you want me to go?" "Up the Nile, to Assouan." "I will go. When shall I start?"

"The day after to-morrow. And now au revoir, my love. I will return by and by."

A moment later we were outside—she and I—in the soft starlight of an Egyptian evening.

"Did I not tell you the truth?" she demanded, with a little laugh of triumph.

"But have you no desire to go on in the spiritual world?" I asked.

"Is there anything more spiritual than love?" she asked in return. "Is not love the fulfilling of the Law?"

"But," I said, "I recently wrote a letter to the men and women of the earth, advising those who should come out here to get away from the earth as soon as possible."

"Lovers like me will not take your advice," she answered, with a smile. "And tell me now: Is it not better for Henry to enjoy my society in the long evenings—is it not better for him to be happy than to grieve for me?"

"But at first? Was he not inconsolable at your going out?"

"Yes, until I came to him. He was sitting one night in deep dejection, and I reached for his hand, and wrote with it: 'I am here, Speak to me.' 'My Love!' he cried, his face alight, 'are you really there?' 'Yes, I am here, and I shall come to you every day until you come out to me,' I answered, through the pencil.

"He had never known that he was what you call a 'writing medium.' He would never have been but for my presence in a form of matter different from his own.

"Come now, my friend," she added, "would you really advise me not to visit Harry any more?"

"There are said to be exceptions to all rules," I answered. "At this moment you seem to me to be one of those exceptions."

"And will you add a postscript to your recent letter to the world?"

"If I can," I said, "I will tell your story. My readers can draw their own conclusions."

"Thank you," was her answer.

"But," I added, "when Henry comes out here in his turn, you two together should go away from the world."

"Have you been away from the world then?"

"To some extent. I am only stopping here now until a certain work is finished."

"And then where are you going?"

"To visit other planets."

"Henry and I will do that, too, when he comes out."

 

Now, my friend, I tell you this story for whatever it is worth. There are cases like hers, where an earthly tie is all-compelling. But in the case of most persons I stand by my original assertion and my original advice.

LETTER LIII
THE ARCHIVES OF THE SOUL

 

I HAVE spoken of a determination to visit other planets when my work of writing these letters is ended; but I must not neglect to say that I consider such journeys to and fro in the universe of far less spiritual value than those other journeys which I have made and shall make into the deep places of my own self. Travelling in actual space and time is important to a man, that he may gain knowledge of other lands and peoples, see the differences between these peoples and him. self, and learn the causes thereof; yet quiet meditation is even a greater factor in growth. If a man whose spiritual perceptions are open can do but one of these two things, it would be better for him to sit in a cabin in the backwoods and seek in his own soul for the secrets which it guards, than to travel without such self-examination to the ends of the earth.

 

Get acquainted with your own soul. Know why you do this or that, why you feel this or that. Sit quietly when in doubt about any matter, and let the truth rise from the deeps of yourself. Examine your motives always. Do not say, "I ought to do this act for such and such a reason; therefore I do it for that reason." Such argument is self-deception. If you do a kind act, ask yourself why. Perhaps you can find even in a kind action a hidden motive of self-seeking. If you should find such a motive, do not deny it to yourself. Acknowledge it to yourself, though you need not advertise it on the walls of your dwelling. Such a secret understanding will give you a greater sympathy and comprehension in judging the motives of others.

 

Strive always for the ideal; but do not label every emotion as an ideal emotion if it is not really that. Speak the truth to yourself. Until you can dare to do that you will make little progress in the quest of your own soul.

 

Between earth lives is a good time to meditate, but one should form the habit of meditation while in the flesh. Habits formed in the flesh have a tendency to continue after the flesh is laid aside. That is a reason why one should keep as free as possible from physical habits.

 

If my charming acquaintance who comes every night to her husband to write love messages through his hand would spend the greater part of her time in acquiring knowledge of this new world, so that she could enlighten him, then might their communion be an unmixed good; but I fear it is not so. Therefore I shall look for her again, and give her some fatherly advice. She has a quick and receptive mind, and I think she will listen to me. He would be interested in her experiences, if for no other reason than because they are hers. Yes, I shall have to find her again.

 

I have made wonderful discoveries in the archives of my own soul. There I have found the memories of all my past, back to a time almost unbelievably distant. In seeing how the causes set up in one life have produced their effects in another life, I have learned more than I shall learn on my coming tour of the planets.

 

Everything exists in the soul; all knowledge is there. Grasp that idea if you can. The infallible part of us is the hidden part, and it is for us to bring it to light. Do you understand now why I advise the disembodied to break away from the distractions and the dazzling mirages of the earthly life? Only in the stillness of detachment can the soul yield up her secrets. It is not that I am indifferent to earthly loves; on the contrary, I love more deeply than ever all those whom I loved on earth; but I realise that if I can love them wisely instead of unwisely, it will be better both for them and for me.

 

Yet the call of the earth is loud sometimes, and my heart answers from this side of the veil.

LETTER LIV
A FORMULA FOR MASTERSHIP

 

MY friend, I am going to leave you for a while—perhaps for a long time.

 

It seems to me that my immediate work with the earth is done. I want still further to lighten my load, to soar out upon the waves of ether—far—far—and to forget, in the thrill of exploration, that I shall some day have to make my way painfully back to the world through the narrow straits of birth.

 

I am going out with the Beautiful Being on a voyage of discovery. My companion has taken this journey before, and can show me the way to many wonders.

 

There is a sadness in bidding you good-bye. Do you remember the last time you saw me in my old body? We neither of us thought that afternoon that we should next meet in a foreign country, and under conditions so strange that half the world will doubt that we have ever met again at all, and the other half will wonder if indeed we have really met.

 

Tell me, was I ever more real to you than I am this evening? While sitting with me in the days of the past, did you ever know less of what I should say a moment afterwards than you know now? Rack your brain as you will, you cannot tell what I am going to talk about. That will prove to you, at least, that I am as real as ever.

 

I want to leave a few messages. Tell…. And tell …. And some day tell my boy to live a brave and clean life. He will be watched over. Tell him that if sometimes he feels the interior guidance, not to be afraid to trust it. Tell him to look within for light.

 

For the present, I have not much more to say to the world at large. But I want you to publish these letters, leaving out only the very personal paragraphs.

 

Yes, I may not see you again for a long time. Do not be sad. When I am gone, perhaps another will come.

 

Do not close the door too tight; but guard well the door, and let no one enter who has not the signs and passwords. You will not be deceived; I have trained you to that end.

 

I cannot write much to-night, for there is a sadness in leaving the earth. But I am—or shall be—all a-thrill with the interest of the coming voyage.

 

Think of it! I shall see far-away planets and meet their inhabitants. Shall I find the "square-faced men"? Perhaps so.

 

In Jupiter, they say, there is a race of beings wonderful to behold. I shall see them. Will they be fairer than our own Beautiful Being, who loves the little earth and usually stays near it, because there are such struggles here?

 

The joy of the struggle! That is the keynote of immortality, the keynote of power. Let this be my final message to the world. Tell them to enjoy their struggles, to thrill at the endless possibilities of combination and creation, to live in the moment while preparing for long hence, and not to exaggerate the importance of momentary failures and disappointments.

 

When they come out here and get their lives in perspective, they will see that most of their causes of anxiety were trivial, and that all the lights and shadows were necessary to the picture.

 

I had my lights and shadows, too, but I regret nothing. The Master enjoys difficulties as a swimmer enjoys the resistance of the water.

 

If I could make you realise the power that comes from facing the struggle—not only bravely, as all the platitudinous bores will tell you, but facing it with enjoyment. Why, any healthy boy enjoys a fight. His blood beats fast, his nerves tingle; but he who keeps his head cool is likely to come out on top.