Die tweede boek van Krishnamurti waarna ek in die vorige inskrywing verwys het is Krishnamurti’s Notebook (Harper & Row 1984). Dit is ‘n dagboek wat hy uit die bloute begin skryf het, vir 7 maande daarmee volgehou het, en net so skielik weer laat vaar het. Nooit van tevore, of daarna, het hy ooit ‘n dagboek gehou nie. Uit wat hy geskryf het kan mens aflei dat daar gedurende daardie 7 maande ‘n ernstige verandering in sy bewusyn plaasgevind het.
Al die wysheid tradisies vertel ons van die transendentale, maar die vraag bly altyd of dit moontlik is om dit te bereik / ervaar in ons hedendaagse lewe. Hierdie skrywe van Krishnamurti gee vir ons ‘n aanduiding dat daar wel meer tot die mens is as net rasionele denke, empiriese ervaring van materialisme, en onbewustelike emosionele dryf-vere.
Drie repe uit sy dagboek:
The crowded plane [to Madras] was hot and even at that height, about eight thousand feet up, it never seemed to get cool. In that morning plane, suddenly and most unexpectedly the otherness came. It is never the same, always new, always unexpected; the odd thing about it is that thought cannot go back over it, reconsider it, examine it leisurely. Memory has no part in it, for every time it happens it is so totally new and unexpected that it does not leave any memory behind it. For it is a total and complete happening, an event that leaves no record, as memory. So it it always new, young, unexpected. It came with extraordinary beauty, not because of the fantastic shape of clouds and the light in them nor of the blue sky, so infinitely blue and tender; there was no reason, no cause for its incredible beauty and that is why it was beautiful. It was the essence not of all the things put together and boiled down to be felt and seen but of all life that has been and that is and that will be, life without time. It was there and it was the fury of beauty.
It was a splendid night full of storm, life and immensity. All the afternoon the otherness had been coming, in the car and in the street. It was there most of the night and early this morning, long before dawn, when meditation was making its way into the unknown depths and heights; it was there with insistent fury. Meditation yielded to the otherness. It was there in the room, with the branches of that huge tree in the garden; it was there with such incredible power and life that the very bones felt it; it seemed to press right through one and made the body and brain completely motionless. It had been there all night in a mild and gentle way and sleep became a very light affair, but as dawn was coming near, it became a crushing, penetrating power. The body and the brain were very alert, listening to the rustle of leaves and seeing the dawn coming through the dark branches of a tall, straight pine. It had great tenderness and beauty that was past and beyond all thought and emotion. It was there and with it was benediction.
It was a beautiful evening, and there were deep dark shadows of many patterns. The moon was very bright and the shadows were very still and the leaves, washed clean, were sparkling. Walking and talking, meditation was going on below the words and the beauty of the night. It was going on at a great depth, flowing outwardly and inwardly ; it was exploding and expanding. One was aware of it; it was happening; one wasn’t experiencing it, experiencing is limiting; it was taking place. There was no participation in it; thought could not share it for thought is such a futile and mechanical thing anyhow, nor could emotion get entangled with it; it was too disturbingly active for either. It was happening at such an unknown depth for which there was no measurement. But there was great stillness. It was quite surprising and not at all ordinary.
Ons moet net altyd onthou: die beskrywing is nooit dit wat beskryf word nie.