“What is Life?” asked a brother. And he was in the midst of a group.
An old man answered, “Life! No better than froth and bubble. His dreams of youth had been dashed to the ground.”
Quick came a young man’s answer, “Life is a dance.” But all the dance of excitement ends in exhaustion, in emptiness.
A young college man quoting Shelley said, “Life is a painted veil.” But is it all paint and varnish? Is there nothing beyond the veil? Is there not something deep, profound, a mystery, at the core of life?
Shakespeare had the wisdom of experience. He said, “Life is a shuttle.” But what is it we weave in the shuttle?
“Life is but thought,” said Coleridge. Yes, but is there not more than thought in the travail of life?
The sacred upanishad saith: “God is Life. And man is an organ of life, the God-life.” Therefore, life is not a dream, not a mockery, not a tragedy, in the long run. Therefore, life is not a bubble, nor a shadow, nor maya.
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