Where does this vast ocean of life come from? In water, on land, in the sky—everywhere I look, life is scattered. Where does all this life originate? I notice something remarkable: the principle of life-work in all creatures is fundamentally one and the same. If I wish to sustain my life, I must use various materials and means—air, water, and the rest. I must eat, I must breathe. All other creatures, great and small, must live by that same method to survive. Even the tiniest microbes must live in the same way. And plants too cannot exist without suitable nourishment from soil and water, without air and warmth for their breathing and respiration. Here is a unified principle of life-work operating within all living things—animals, insects, plants—all possessing life. Without a fundamental cause of life, how could this same law function so beautifully everywhere? That fundamental cause is the Supreme Being, that incomparable Great Life—and it is because of this that one and the same principle, one and the same law, works within all beings.
Life knows no destruction or death. That Great Life from which life has come is itself, as we have already said, beyond death in every way. If death could touch that Great Life, how could the work of countless lives continue in this world? You have a wind-up clock. You are alive, you wind it, and so it runs regularly. When you die, if no one else winds it, the clock will stop. Just so: if the Great Life were absent, how could life exist at all?
That life has not come of itself, but rather from that Great Life—consider this one thought, and there can remain no doubt on this matter. You have learned that zero multiplied or divided by any number remains zero. This means that if something does not exist, nothing can be created from that void, nor can anything emerge from it. Where there is no life, where it is lifeless, no matter how much heat or water is supplied, the result will only be void—no sign of life will appear. This is the principle: nothing can come from nothing.
When we eat meat, when we eat fish, when we eat lentils and rice—if there were no life in these things, how could we nourish ourselves and survive by eating them? There is evidence that grain harvested thousands of years ago, given proper soil, water, and air, has produced crops in the proper way. You might think that grain so ancient must have long since died. But no. Because it contained life, from it came forth new life in the form of crops. The life in grain, barley, and corn is so hardy that even if you boil them thoroughly, life is not entirely expelled. Such life as remains is sufficient for sustaining our own life. Their remaining life, in communion with water, air, and light, takes on other forms and shapes.
When we consume cooked things to sustain our lives, what we are truly doing is extracting from them a quantity of life-force suited to our survival, fashioning that vital essence into muscular strength, blood, and various other forms of the body, while expelling the remainder through different means. Other creatures consume raw things and similarly extract the life-force appropriate to nourish their own bodies, casting out the rest. From all these examples, you can understand something of this: the life-force we perceive here knows no death, though its forms and shapes may alter endlessly. Consider now: there was a time when this earth did not exist at all. The sun, as it is now, was once smaller in its beginning. From the friction of dust and gas swirling around that burning sun arose the birth of our earth. In that time when the earth emerged from the sun, it was so intensely hot that no form of life could possibly arise within it. Gradually that earth cooled, became fit for the sustenance of life, and slowly within it sprouted trees and plants and the origins of living things. Could this ever have come to pass by mere accident? That life which proceeds in rhythm and measure, in orderly progression—could such a thing arrive by chance? I have said before: from nothingness comes only nothingness. Had the sun contained no seed of life, how could life ever have come to the earth? And could the very root seed of life within the sun itself have arrived by happenstance? Imagine a mathematical problem written in a notebook. Could you possibly believe that this problem simply exists as solved, that no one actually worked it out and set it down? That seed of life concealed within the sun must surely have been placed there by that Great Life, by the Supreme Lord himself. By his will did life arrive; by his will did life originate. How could life persist if death could touch him? There is no possibility of change in him either. He stands beyond death, pervading all the worlds, and has poured forth life abundantly. Every living thing that plays upon this earth is nothing but his gift. God is bliss itself. Therefore he transcends death. Our joylessness arises from the absence of happiness. I desire happiness that transcends death; when happiness is absent, suffering comes, and with suffering comes the void. You desire your mother's affection; when you receive it, you find joy; when denied it, sorrow and emptiness descend. Yet in this world, among all forms of happiness that exist, survival itself is the root of every happiness, for without life there is no possibility of tasting happiness of any kind. And among all sufferings, death is the supreme suffering and the source of all anguish, for death brings an end to every joy. But he who is eternal truth and eternal bliss—how could death touch him? How could it approach him? He is full of bliss; not even a particle of joylessness can reach him.
God is knowledge itself, and therefore He transcends death. He knows completely all that has been, all that is, and all that shall be. Just as life came to this earth from the sun, so too does He know — not merely here, but throughout all creation, wherever and however the play of life moves and shall move. He knows the beginning, middle, and end of every living atom. Had He not transcended death, He could not know the past and future of each living atom, nor their present. Should He suffer death, He would surely know nothing of what comes after. God alone is infinite truth, God alone is infinite knowledge, and God alone is the bliss of immortality.
God is the source of peace. His ocean of peace runs fathomlessly deep. Within and without, that profound quietude spreads everywhere — open your eyes to truly see, and you shall find His peaceful presence in all places. Sit at dawn upon some spacious sandy bank beside a river. From within the distant village, a bird or two stirs in half-sleep and calls out, then falls silent again. How lovely it is to hear. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, you will see the sun rise, unveiling its serene form with each moment. Ah, how the peaceful countenance of nature at that hour speaks so effortlessly of God's tranquility!
Sit beneath a tree in the midst of a vast field on a summer noon. You will see how the fine dust of the plain trembles like thin smoke, rising ceaselessly into the sky; no cattle, no people, no creature stirs upon the field; men and women either rest in their homes or sleep contentedly beneath the trees; the cattle lie in the shade, chewing their cud; the birds sit sheltered in the leaves' shadow, shielding themselves from the relentless heat. In such a moment, God's profound peace reveals itself most clearly.
Sit alone upon some hillside in the evening. You will see the cowherd slowly leading the cattle home. The birds return to their nests one by one, calling softly as they settle into sleep. Dusk approaches with steps so silent, so imperceptible, and draws the veil of her shawl across the face of the earth. Stars begin to bloom, one or two at a time, in the deepening blue. What profound peace! What a beautiful testimony to the tranquility of that ocean of peace! Look toward the moonlit sky on a full-moon night, or enter into the darkness of a moonless night — everywhere you shall find that same deep peace. This serenity of nature is but a shadow of that ocean of peace itself.