The moth sees the flame burning at night in a lantern and, filled with an irresistable desire to be united with that flame, plays about the lamp till dawn, then returns to his friends to tell them in sweetest terms the tale of his experience. "You don't look the better for it," they say, for his wings are pretty much banged up: that is the condition of the ascetic. But he returns the next night, and finding a way through the glass, is united entire with his beloved and becomes himself the flame.
We in our tradition do not recognize the possibility of such experience of identity with the ground of one's own being.
