> The Hidden Words of Bahá’u’lláh – Part Two: From the Persian – Number 44
O Companion of My Throne!
Hear no evil, and see no evil, abase not thyself, neither sigh and weep.
Speak no evil, that thou mayest not hear it spoken unto thee,
and magnify not the faults of others that thine own faults may not appear great;
and wish not the abasement of anyone, that thine own abasement be not exposed.
Live then the days of thy life, that are less than a fleeting moment,
with thy mind stainless, thy heart unsullied, thy thoughts pure, and thy nature sanctified,
so that, free and content, thou mayest put away this mortal frame,
and repair unto the mystic paradise and abide in the eternal kingdom forevermore.
– Bahá’u’lláh
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There’s a weight to these words—something crystalline and layered, like a perfect cross-section through the sediment of human behavior.
And for those of us who read both scripture and stratigraphy, Bahá’u’lláh’s message here rings like a hammer on good outcrop: precise, deliberate, and resonant.
There is, tucked into this passage, a spiritual field manual. One that—whether by fortune or Providence—speaks directly to the life of the field geologist, the explorer, the mapper of uncertain lands. It is not doctrine in the institutional sense, but it is guidance. And perhaps, it’s what we most need as we move through this era of deep uncertainty—where values, policies, and ecosystems alike feel under constant redefinition.
Let’s read it again—only this time, layered with dust, ethics, and a bit of wanderlust.
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“Hear no evil, and see no evil…”
In the literal wilds where we work, evil doesn’t often wear a cape. It’s rarely cartoonish or obvious. It comes instead as cynicism creeping into our thoughts. As distrust baked into meetings before they even start. As the temptation to see others not as stewards, but as obstacles.
To hear no evil isn’t about naivety. It’s about guarding the inner ear from corrosive frequencies. Not turning away from hard truths, but resisting the temptation to marinate in bitterness. If your hearing is tuned for complaint, you’ll miss the quiet hum of progress.
And to see no evil is a call to remember that our field of vision—literally and figuratively—can either focus on the flaws in people, or on the beauty and potential of what might emerge. We can choose to see landowners as partners, regulators as collaborators, even when history tells us to brace for battle.
Sometimes we find what we’re willing to look for.
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“…abase not thyself, neither sigh and weep.”
Every geologist has had the day where the trucks won’t start, the waterline’s frozen, the drill steel is late, and the gamma log comes up flat.
But Bahá’u’lláh reminds us: you don’t have to bow down to despair. You don’t have to weep your way through hardship. Stand upright. Even in failure, even in “duster” holes, there’s dignity in the work.
This line is less about denying grief than it is about resisting collapse. In the long story of exploration, every disappointment is a footnote, not the whole book. Our time here is too short to waste on self-inflicted erosion.
—
“Speak no evil, that thou mayest not hear it spoken unto thee…”
We work in a word-heavy world. Proposals. Calls. Emails. Public hearings. Investor decks.
And every word we release is a kind of seismic wave—it goes out and reverberates. When we speak poorly of others, that energy finds its way back. When we diminish, gossip, or belittle, we become tuned to the same frequency, and soon enough, we hear it spoken of us.
But when we speak with clarity, fairness, even generosity—especially toward those with whom we disagree—we tune ourselves to something more enduring.
There’s a dignity in restraint. And in an industry where egos often roar louder than compressors, restraint is a rare and powerful resource.
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“…and magnify not the faults of others that thine own faults may not appear great;”
We know how easy it is to trace faults—both geologic and human. But focusing the lens too tightly on another’s shortcomings is often a clever dodge from mapping our own.
In exploration, magnification is a tool: we use it to study thin sections, to understand structure, to reveal clarity. But when turned toward others, it can become distortion. The more we zoom in on their missteps, the easier it becomes to overlook the fractures running through our own plans, teams, or ethics.
There’s wisdom in keeping that lens calibrated.
—
“…and wish not the abasement of anyone, that thine own abasement be not exposed.”
It’s tempting—especially in the competitive chaos of critical mineral land rushes and permit queues—to quietly wish for someone else to stumble. A denied permit. A failed fundraise. A regulatory snag.
But to wish abasement is to create a fissure in your own foundation. It invites reactivity, pettiness, and scarcity where abundance and purpose might otherwise guide your course.
The Earth doesn’t reward spite. It responds to presence, patience, and persistence. Wishing someone else down doesn’t raise you up—it only digs both your graves a little deeper.
—
“Live then the days of thy life, that are less than a fleeting moment…”
This—this is the hinge upon which the rest swings. The poetic turning point.
Whatever claims we stake, whatever legacy we build, our time in the field—and on this Earth—is less than a fleeting moment. We are vapor on the mirror of geologic time.
And yet, we are asked to live with intention. With presence. To live, not just endure, or profit, or perform. To dwell in our moments as if they were sacred because… they are.
What a gift that geology teaches us this, too. To cherish every field day, every outcrop, every moment where the wind shifts and the light hits the orebody just right. It’s not always glorious—but it is always real.
—
“…with thy mind stainless, thy heart unsullied, thy thoughts pure, and thy nature sanctified…”
Let the drill rods turn. Let the maps evolve. Let the science be bold.
But let the inner compass stay clean.
A stainless mind doesn’t mean sterile—it means honest. A pure thought doesn’t mean naïve—it means intentional. And a sanctified nature doesn’t mean sanctimonious—it means showing up each day with the quiet understanding that this work matters. That how we do it matters even more.
To live like this—stainless, unsullied, sanctified—isn’t easy. But it’s the kind of legacy you can’t assay or log. And it’s the only one that will echo past the mine life.
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“…so that, free and content, thou mayest put away this mortal frame, and repair unto the mystic paradise and abide in the eternal kingdom forevermore.”
What is the mystic paradise?
Maybe it’s the state of soul when your work aligns with your worth. When your decisions bear the weight of conscience and your days, however fleeting, leave behind a landscape slightly more honest for your having walked it.
Maybe paradise is here—not in the afterlife—but in the after-work. In the peace that comes from knowing you stood upright, worked clean, and left no evil spoken, seen, or scattered behind you.
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🜂 Final Thought:
In exploration, it’s easy to focus on what’s below. But Bahá’u’lláh’s words remind us to look within. To survey our own conduct with the same rigor we apply to soil grids and gamma logs.
The Earth will continue to turn. Markets will rise and fall. But your days—those fleeting moments you’re gifted—are your one true claim.
So: live them.
With clarity. With kindness. With a clean mind and sanctified nature.
The drill is turning. Let your heart stay true.
the musing geologist 
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