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The words of the scholar are to be understood. the words of the master are not to be understood. they are to be listened to as one listens to the wind in the trees and the sound of the river and the song of the bird. they will awaken something within the heart that is beyond all knowledge.

-Anthony De Mello

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The Words Of The Scholar Are To

Anthony De Mello

The words of the scholar are to be understood. the words of the master are not to be understood. they are to be listened to as one listens to the wind in the trees and the sound of the river and the song of the bird. they will awaken something within the heart that is beyond all knowledge.

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    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"the words of the scholar are to be understood. the words of the master are not to be understood. they are to be listened to as one listens to the wind in the trees and the sound of the river and the song of the bird. they will awaken something within the heart that is beyond all knowledge."</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— Anthony de Mello</footer>
    <p style="margin-top: 15px; font-size: 0.85rem;"><a href="https://pjdigitalmarketing.com/quote/the-words-of-the-scholar-are-to-be-understood-the-words-of-r5ykj" style="color: #8b5cf6; text-decoration: none;">View this quote on Pjdigitalmarketing.com</a></p>
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Topic

Song Heart Wind

More From Anthony De Mello

I'm not a master. i'm a student-master, meaning that i have the knowledge of a master and the expertise of a master, but i'm still learning. so i'm a student-master. i don't believe in the word 'master.' i consider the master as such when they close the casket.

The sun shines not on us but in us. the rivers flow not past, but through us. thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. the trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.

I have transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been nothing but an obstacle on their travels. they travelled to seek money and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was obstructing their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them quickly across that obstacle. but for some among thousands, a few, four or five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard its voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to them, as it has become sacred to me.

The many-voiced song of the river echoed softly. siddhartha looked into the river and saw many pictures in the flowing water. the river's voice was sorrowful. it sang with yearning and sadness, flowing towards its goal ... siddhartha was now listening intently...to this song of a thousand voices ... then the great song of a thousand voices consisted of one word: om - perfection ... from that hour siddhartha ceased to fight against his destiny.

You will remember when a bird crashed through the window and fell to the floor. you will remember, those of you who were there, how it jerked its wings before dying, and left a spot of blood on the floor after it was removed. but who among you was first to notice the negative bird it left in the window? who first saw the shadow that the bird left behind, the shadow that drew blood from any finger that dared to trace it, the shadow that was better proof of the bird's existence than the bird ever was?

Early bird oh, if you’re a bird, be an early bird and catch the worm for your breakfast plate. if you’re a bird, be an early bird— but if you’re a worm, sleep late.

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