1. The Tavern: Whoever Brought Me Here Will Have to Take Me Home
In the tavern are many wines:
the wine of delight in color and form and taste,
the wine of the intellect's agility,
the fine port of stories,
the cabernet of soul singing.
Being human means entering this place where entrancing varieties of desire are served. The grapeskin of ego breaks and a pouring begins. Fermentation is one of the oldest symbols for human transformation. When grapes combine their juice and are closed up together for a time in a dark place, the results are spectacular. This is what lets two drunks meet so that they don't know who is who. Pronouns no longer apply in the tavern's mud-world of excited confusion and half-articulated wantings.
But after some time in the tavern, a point comes, a memory of elsewhere, a longing for the source, and the drunks must set off from the tavern and begin the return. The Qur'an says, "We are all returning." The tavern is a kind of glorious hell that human beings enjoy and suffer and then push off from in their search for truth. The tavern is a dangerous region where sometimes disguises are necessary, but never hide your heart, Rumi urges. Keep open there. A breaking apart, a crying out into the street, begins in the tavern, and the human soul turns to find its way home.
It's 4 A.M. Nasruddin leaves the tavern and walks the town aimlessly. A policeman stops him. "Why are you out wandering the streets in the middle of the night?" "Sir," replies Nasruddin, "if I knew the answer to that question, I would have been home hours ago!"
All day I think about it, then at night I say it. Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing? I have no idea. My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that, and I intend to end up there. This drunkenness began in some other tavern. When I get back around to that place, I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile, I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary. The day is coming when I fly off, but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice? Who says words with my mouth? Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul? I cannot stop asking. If I could taste one sip of an answer, I could break out of this prison for drunks. I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way. Whoever brought me here will have to take me home. This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say. I don't plan it. When I'm outside the saying of it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
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We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups. That's fine with us. Every morning we glow and in the evening we glow again. They say there's no future for us. They're right. Which is fine with us.
There is a community of the spirit. Join it, and feel the delight of walking in the noisy street, and being the noise. Drink all your passion, and be a disgrace. Close both eyes to see with the other eye. Open your hands, if you want to be held. Sit down in this circle. Quit acting like a wolf, and feel the shepherd's love filling you. At night, your beloved wanders. Don't accept consolations. Close your mouth against food. Taste the lover's mouth in yours. You moan, "She left me." "He left me." Twenty more will come. Be empty of worrying. Think of who created thought! Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open? Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking. Live in silence. Flow down and down in always widening rings of being.
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There's a strange frenzy in my head, of birds flying, each particle circulating on its own. Is the one I love everywhere?
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Drunks fear the police, but the police are drunk too. People in this town love them both like different chess pieces.
Listen to the poet Sanai, who lived secluded: "Don't wander out on the road in your ecstasy. Sleep in the tavern."
When a drunk strays out to the street, children make fun of him. He falls down in the mud. He takes any and every road.
The children follow, not knowing the taste of wine, or how his drunkenness feels. All people on the planet are children, except for a very few. No one is grown up except those free of desire.
God said, "The world is a play, a children's game, and you are the children."
God speaks the truth. If you haven't left the child's play, how can you be an adult?
Without purity of spirit, if you're still in the middle of lust and greed and other wantings, you're like children playing at sexual intercourse.
They wrestle and rub together, but it's not sex!
The same with the sightings of mankind. It's a squabble with play-swords. No purpose, totally futile.
Like kids on hobby horses, soldiers claim to be riding Boraq, Muhammad's night-horse, or Duldul, his mule.
Your actions mean nothing, the sex and war that you do. You're holding part of your pants and prancing around, Dun-da-dun, dun-da-dun.
Don't wait till you die to see this. Recognize that your imagination and your thinking and your sense perception are reed canes that children cut and pretend are horsies.
The knowing of mystic lovers is different. The empirical, sensory, sciences are like a donkey loaded with books, or like the makeup woman's makeup.
It washes off. But if you lift the baggage rightly, it will give joy. Don't carry your knowledge-load for some selfish reason. Deny your desires and willfulness, and a real mount may appear under you.
Don't be satisfied with the name of HU, with just words about it.
Experience that breathing. From books and words come fantasy, and sometimes, from fantasy comes union.
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Gone, inner and outer, no moon, no ground or sky. Don't hand me another glass of wine. Pour it in my mouth. I've lost the way to my mouth.
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The wine we really drink is our own blood. Our bodies ferment in these barrels. We give everything for a glass of this. We give our minds for a sip.
God has given us a dark wine so potent that, drinking it, we leave the two worlds. God has put into the form of hashish a power to deliver the taster from self-consciousness. God has made sleep so that it erases every thought. God made Majnun love Layla so much that just her dog would cause confusion in him. There are thousands of wines that can take over our minds. Don't think all ecstasies are the same! Jesus was lost in his love for God. His donkey was drunk with barley. Drink from the presence of saints, not from those other jars. Every object, every being, is a jar full of delight. Be a connoisseur, and taste with caution. Any wine will get you high. Judge like a king, and choose the purest, the ones unadulterated with fear, or some urgency about "what's needed." Drink the wine that moves you as a camel moves when it's been untied, and is just ambling about.
Notice how each particle moves. Notice how everyone has just arrived here from a journey. Notice how each wants a different food. Notice how the stars vanish as the sun comes up, and how all streams stream toward the ocean. Look at the chefs preparing special plates for everyone, according to what they need. Look at this cup that can hold the ocean. Look at those who see the face. Look through Shams' eyes into the water that is entirely jewels.
Last year, I admired wines. This year, I'm wandering inside the red world. Last year, I gazed at the fire. This year I'm burnt kabob. Thirst drove me down to the water where I drank the moon's reflection. Now I am a lion staring up totally lost in love with the thing itself. Don't ask questions about longing. Look in my face. Soul drunk, body ruined, these two sit helpless in a wrecked wagon. Neither knows how to fix it. And my heart, I'd say it was more like a donkey sunk in a mudhole, struggling and miring deeper. But listen to me: for one moment, quit being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms around you. God.
It's the old rule that drunks have to argue and get into fights. The lover is just as bad. He falls into a hole. But down in that hole he finds something shining, worth more than any amount of money or power. Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street. I took it as a sign to start singing, falling up into the bowl of sky. The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere. Nothing else to do. Here's the new rule: break the wineglass, and fall toward the glassblower's breath.
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This that is tormented and very tired, tortured with restraints like a madman, this heart. Still you keep breaking the shell to get the taste of its kernel!Contents
At the verge of full fana (annihilation in God) there seems to be a region of sweet confusion, the sense of being in many places at once saying multiple sentences. A hazy melting, fragile and nearly blank. Profound ignorance within which conventional, calm behavior seems insane!
Rumi's poems are not well-trimmed, Persian miniature gardens. They are more like, as scholar Annemarie Schimmel says, the paintings in the Turkoman style-full of abrupt movement, odd flowers and bushes, demons and talking animals.
The wakened lover speaks directly to the beloved, "You are the sky my spirit circles in, the love inside love, the resurrection-place. Let this window be your ear. I have lost consciousness many times with longing for your listening silence, and your life-quickening smile. You give attention to the smallest matters, my suspicious doubts, and to the greatest. You know my coins are counterfeit, but you accept them anyway, my impudence and my pretending! I have five things to say, five fingers to give into your grace. First, when I was apart from you, this world did not exist, nor any other. Second, whatever I was looking for was always you. Third, why did I ever learn to count to three? Fourth, my cornfield is burning! Fifth, this finger stands for Rabia, and this is for someone else. Is there a difference? Are these words or tears? Is weeping speech? What shall I do, my love?" So he speaks, and everyone around begins to cry with him, laughing crazily, moaning in the spreading union of lover and beloved. This is the true religion. All others are thrown-away bandages beside it. This is the sema of slavery and mastery dancing together. This is not-being. Neither words, nor any natural fact can express this. I know these dancers. Day and night I sing their songs in this phenomenal cage. My soul, don't try to answer now! Find a friend, and hide. But what can stay hidden? Love's secret is always lifting its head out from under the covers, "Here I am!"
Here are the miracle-signs you want: that you cry through the night and get up at dawn, asking, that in the absence of what you ask for your day gets dark, your neck thin as a spindle, that what you give away is all you own, that you sacrifice belongings, sleep, health, your head, that you often sit down in a fire like aloes wood, and often go out to meet a blade like a battered helmet. When acts of helplessness become habitual, those are the signs. But you run back and forth listening for unusual events, peering into the faces of travelers. "Why are you looking at me like a madman?" I have lost a friend. Please forgive me. Searching like that does not fail. There will come a rider who holds you close. You faint and gibber. The uninitiated say, "He's faking." How could they know? Water washes over a beached fish, the water of those signs I just mentioned. Excuse my wandering. How can one be orderly with this? It's like counting leaves in a garden, along with the song-notes of partridges, and crows. Sometimes organization and computation become absurd.
Of these two thousand "I" and "We" people, which am I? Don't try to keep me from asking! Listen, when I'm this out of control! But don't put anything breakable in my way! There is an original inside me. What's here is a mirror for that, for you. If you are joyful, I am. If you grieve, or if you're bitter, or graceful, I take on those qualities. Like the shadow of a cypress tree in the meadow, like the shadow of a rose, I live close to the rose. If I separated myself from you, I would turn entirely thorn. Every second, I drink another cup of my own blood-wine. Every instant, I break an empty cup against your door. I reach out, wanting you to tear me open. Saladin's generosity lights a candle in my chest. Who am I then? His empty begging bowl.
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Late, by myself, in the boat of myself, no light and no land anywhere, cloudcover thick. I try to stay just above the surface, yet I'm already under and living within the ocean. Does sunset sometimes look like the sun's coming up? Do you know what a faithful love is like? You're crying. You say you've burned yourself. But can you think of anyone who's not hazy with smoke?
Totally conscious, and apropos of nothing, you come to see me. Is someone here? I ask. The moon. The full moon is inside your house. My friends and I go running out into the street. I'm in here, comes a voice from the house, but we aren't listening. We're looking up at the sky. My pet nightingale sobs like a drunk in the garden. Ringdoves scatter with small cries, Where, Where. It's midnight. The whole neighborhood is up and out in the street thinking, The cat burglar has come back. The actual thief is there too, saying out loud, Yes, the cat burglar is somewhere in this crowd. No one pays attention. Lo, I am with you always means when you look for God, God is in the look of your eyes, in the thought of looking, nearer to you than your self, or things that have happened to you There's no need to go outside. Be melting snow. Wash yourself of yourself. A white flower grows in the quietness. Let your tongue become that flower.
I need a mouth as wide as the sky to say the nature of a True Person, language as large as longing. The fragile vial inside me often breaks. No wonder I go mad and disappear for three days every month with the moon. For anyone in love with you, it's always these invisible days. I've lost the thread of the story I was telling. My elephant roams his dream of Hindustan again. Narrative, poetics, destroyed, my body, a dissolving, a return. Friend, I've shrunk to a hair trying to say your story. Would you tell mine? I've made up so many love stories. Now I feel fictional. Tell me! The truth is, you are speaking, not me. I am Sinai, and you are Moses walking there. This poetry is an echo of what you say. A piece of land can't speak, or know anything! Or if it can, only within limits. The body is a device to calculate the astronomy of the spirit. Look through that astrolabe and become oceanic. Why this distracted talk? It's not my fault I rave. You did this. Do you approve of my love-madness? Say yes. What language will you say it in, Arabic or Persian, or what? Once again, I must be tied up. Bring the curly ropes of your hair. Now I remember the story. A True Man stares at his old shoes and sheepskin jacket. Every day he goes up to his attic to look at his work-shoes and worn-out coat. This is his wisdom, to remember the original clay and not get drunk with ego and arrogance. To visit those shoes and jacket is praise. The Absolute works with nothing. The workshop, the materials are what does not exist. Try and be a sheet of paper with nothing on it. Be a spot of ground where nothing is growing, where something might be planted, a seed, possibly, from the Absolute.
An invisible bird flies over, but casts a quick shadow. What is the body? That shadow of a shadow of your love, that somehow contains the entire universe. A man sleeps heavily, though something blazes in him like the sun, like a magnificent fringe sewn up under the hem. He turns under the covers. Any image is a lie: A clear red stone tastes sweet. You kiss a beautiful mouth, and a key turns in the lock of your fear. A spoken sentence sharpens to a fine edge. A mother dove looks for her nest, asking where, ku? Where, ku? Where the lion lies down. Where any man or woman goes to cry. Where the sick go when they hope to get well. Where a wind lifts that helps with winnowing, and, the same moment, sends a ship on its way. Where anyone says Only God Is Real. Ya Hu! Where beyond where. A bright weaver's shuttle flashes back and forth, east-west, Where-are-we? Ma ku? Maku. like the sun saying Where are we? as it weaves with the asking.
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The Friend comes into my body looking for the center, unable to find it, draws a blade, strikes anywhere.
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There is a light seed grain inside. You fill it with yourself, or it cies. I'm caught in this curling energy! Your hair! Whoever's calm and sensible is insane!
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Do you think I know what I'm doing? That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself? As much as a pen knows what it's writing, or the ball can guess where it's going next.Contents
In Persian poetry the poet often refers to himself or herself by name at the end of a poem as a sort of signature. Rumi's variation on this is to refer instead to Shams (over a thousand poems end this way) or to silence. He gives the poetry to its true authorship, including the emptiness after as part of the poem. Five hundred odes conclude with khamush, silence.
Rumi is less interested in language, more attuned to the sources of it. He keeps asking Husam, "Who's making this music?" He sometimes gives the wording over to the invisible flute player: "Let that musician finish this poem."
Words are not important in themselves, but as resonators for a center. Rumi has a whole theory of language based on the reed flute (ney) Beneath everything we say, and within each note of the reed flute, lies a nostalgia for the reed bed.
Language and music are possible only because we're empty, hollow, and separated from the source. All language is a longing for home. Why is there not a second tonality, he muses, a note in praise of the craftsman's skill, which fashioned the bare cylinder into a ney, the intricate human form with its nine holes?
Listen to the story told by the reed, of being separated. "Since I was cut from the reed bed, I have made this crying sound. Anyone apart from someone he loves understands what I say. Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back. At any gathering I am there, mingling in the laughing and grieving, a friend to each, but few will hear the secrets hidden within the notes. No ears for that. Body flowing out of spirit, spirit up from body: no concealing that mixing. But it's not given us to see the soul. The reed flute is fire, not wind. Be that empty." Hear the love fire tangled in the reed notes, as bewilderment melts into wine. The reed is a friend to all who want the fabric torn and drawn away. The reed is hurt and salve combining. Intimacy and longing for intimacy, one song. A disastrous surrender and a fine love, together. The one who secretly hears this is senseless. A tongue has one customer, the ear. A sugarcane flute has such effect because it was able to make sugar in the reedbed. The sound it makes is for everyone. Days full of wanting, let them go by without worrying that they do. Stay where you are inside such a pure, hollow note. Every thirst gets satisfied except that of these fish, the mystics, who swim a vast ocean of grace still somehow longing for it! No one lives in that without being nourished every day. But if someone doesn't want to hear the song of the reed flute, it's best to cut conversation short, say good-bye, and leave.
I don't get tired of you. Don't grow weary of being compassionate toward me! All this thirst equipment must surely be tired of me, the waterjar, the water carrier. I have a thirsty fish in me that can never find enough of what it's thirsty for! Show me the way to the ocean! Break these half-measures, these small containers. All this fantasy and grief. Let my house be drowned in the wave that rose last night out of the courtyard hidden in the center of my chest. Joseph fell like the moon into my well. The harvest I expected was washed away. But no matter. A fire has risen above my tombstone hat. I don't want learning, or digrnty, or respectability. I want this music and this dawn and the warmth of your cheek. against mine. The grief-armies assemble, but I'm not going with them. This is how it always is when I finish a poem. A great silence overcomes me, and I wonder why I ever thought to use language.
How does a part of the world leave the world? How can wetness leave water? Don't try to put out a fire by throwing on more fire! Don't wash a wound with blood! No matter how fast you run, your shadow more than keeps up. Sometimes, it's in front! Only full, overhead sun diminishes your shadow. But that shadow has been serving you! What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is your candle. Your boundaries are your quest. I can explain this, but it would break the glass cover on your heart, and there's no fixing that. You must have shadow and light source both. Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe. When from that tree, feathers and wings sprout on you, be quieter than a dove. Don't open your mouth for even a cooooooo. When a frog slips into the water, the snake cannot get it. Then the frog climbs back out and croaks, and the snake moves toward him again. Even if the frog learned to hiss, still the snake would hear through the hiss the information he needed, the frog voice underneath. But if the frog could be completely silent, then the snake would go back to sleeping, and the frog could reach the barley. The soul lives there in the silent breath. And that grain of barley is such that, when you put it in the ground, it grows. Are these enough words, or shall I squeeze more juice from this? Who am I, my friend?
Praise to the emptiness
that blanks out existence.
Existence: this place made
from our love for that emptiness!
Yet somehow comes emptiness, this existence goes.
Praise to that happening, over and over!
For years I pulled my own
existence out of emptiness.
Then one swoop,
one swing of the arm,
that work is over.
Free of who I was,
free of presence,
free of dangerous fear, hope,
free of mountainous wanting.
The here-and-now mountain
is a tiny piece of a piece of straw
blown off into emptiness.
These words I'm saying so much
begin to lose meaning:
existence, emptiness,
mountain, straw
Words and what they try to say
are swept out the window,
down the slant of the roof.
Inside this new love, die. Your way begins on the other side. Become the sky. Take an axe to the prison wall. Escape. Walk out like someone suddenly born into color. Do it now. You're covered with thick cloud. Slide out the side. Die, and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign that you've died. Your old life was a frantic running from silence. The speechless full moon comes out now.
Someone says, Sanai is dead. No small thing to say. He was not bits of husk, or a puddle that freezes overnight, or a comb that cracks when you use it, or a pod crushed open on the ground. He was fine powder in a rough clay dish. He knew what both worlds were worth: A grain of barley. One he slung down, the other up. The inner soul, that presence of which most know nothing, about which poets are so ambiguous, he married that one to the beloved. His pure gold wine pours on the thick wine dregs. They mix and rise and separate again to meet down the road. Dear friend from Marghaz, who lived in Rayy, in Rum, Kurd from the mountains, each of us returns home. Silk must not be compared with striped canvas. Be quiet and clear now like the final touchpoints of calligraphy. Your name has been erased from the roaring volume of speech.
A candle is made to become entirely flame. In that annihilating moment it has no shadow. It is nothing but a tongue of light describing a refuge. Look at this just-finishing candle stub as someone who is finally safe from virtue and vice, the pride and the shame we claim from those.
I've said before that every craftsman searches for what's not there to practice his craft. A builder looks for the rotten hole where the roof caved in. A water carrier picks the empty pot. A carpenter stops at the house with no door. Workers rush toward some hint of emptiness, which they then start to fill. Their hope, though, is for emptiness, so don't think you must avoid it. It contains what you need! Dear soul, if you were not friends with the vast nothing inside, why would you always be casting your net into it, and waiting so patiently? This invisible ocean has given you such abundance, but still you call it "death," that which provides you sustenance and work. God has allowed some magical reversal to occur, so that you see the scorpion pit as an object of desire, and all the beautiful expanse around it as dangerous and swarming with snakes. This is how strange your fear of death and emptiness is, and how perverse the attachment to what you want. Now that you've heard me on your misapprehensions, dear friend, listen to Attar's story on the same subject. He strung the pearls of this about King Mahmud, how among the spoils of his Indian campaign there was a Hindu boy, whom he adopted as a son. He educated and provided royally for the boy and later made him vice-regent, seated on a gold throne beside himself. One day he found the young man weeping. "Why are you crying? You're the companion of an emperor! The entire nation is ranged out before you like stars that you can command!" The young man replied, "I am remembering my mother and my father, and how they scared me as a child with threats of you! 'Uh-oh, he's headed for King Mahmud's court! Nothing could be more hellish!' Where are they now when they should see me sitting here?" This incident is about your fear of changing. You are the Hindu boy. Mahmud, which means, Praise to the End, is the spirit's poverty, or emptiness. The mother and father are your attachment to beliefs and bloodties and desires and comforting habits. Don't listen to them! They seem to protect, but they imprison. They are your worst enemies. They make you afraid of living in emptiness. Some day you'll weep tears of delight in that court, remembering your mistaken parents! Know that your body nurtures the spirit, helps it grow, and then gives it wrong advice. The body becomes, eventually, like a vest of chainmail in peaceful years, too hot in summer and too cold in winter. But the body's desires, in another way, are like an unpredictable associate, whom you must be patient with. And that companion is helpful, because patience expands your capacity to love and feel peace. The patience of a rose close to a thorn keeps it fragrant. It's patience that gives milk to the male camel still nursing in its third year, and patience is what the prophets show to us. The beauty of careful sewing on a shirt is the patience it contains. Friendship and loyalty have patience as the strength of their connections. Feeling lonely and ignoble indicates that you haven't been patient. Be with those who mix with God as honey blends with milk, and say, "Anything that comes and goes, rises and sets, is not what I love." Live in the one who created the prophets, else you'll be like a caravan fire left to flare itself out alone beside the road.
Consider the difference in our actions and God's actions. We often ask, "Why did you do that?" or "Why did I act like that?" We do act, and yet everything we do is God's creative action. We look back and analyze the events of our lives, but there is another way of seeing, a backward-and-forward-at-once vision, that is not rationally understandable. Only God can understand it. Satan made the excuse, You caused me to fall, whereas Adam said to God, We did this to ourselves. After this repentance, God asked Adam, Since all is within my foreknowledge, why didn't you defend yourself with that reason? Adam answered, I was afraid, and I wanted to be reverent. Whoever acts with respect will get respect. Whoever brings sweetness will be served almond cake. Good women are drawn to be with good men. Honor your friend. Or treat him rudely, and see what happens! Love, tell an incident now that will clarify this mystery of how we act freely, and are yet compelled. One hand shakes with palsy. Another shakes because you slapped it away. Both tremblings come from God, but you feel guilty for the one, and what about the other? These are intellectual questions. The spirit approaches the matter differently. Omar once had a friend, a scientist, Bu'l-Hakam, who was flawless at solving empirical problems, but he could not follow Omar into the area of illumination and wonder. Now I return to the text, "And He is with you, wherever you are," but when have I ever left it! Ignorance is God's prison. Knowing is God's palace. We sleep in God's unconsciousness. We wake in God's open hand. We weep God's rain. We laugh God's lightning. Fighting and peacefulness both take place within God. Who are we then in this complicated world-tangle, that is really just the single, straight line down at the beginning of ALLAH? Nothing. We are emptiness.
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When you are with everyone but me, you're with no one. When you are with no one but me, you're with everyone. Instead of being so bound up with everyone, be everyone. When you become that many, you're nothing. Empty.
I used to want buyers for my words. Now I wish someone would buy me away from words. I've made a lot of charmingly profound images, scenes with Abraham, and Abraham's father, Azar, who was also famous for icons. I'm so tired of what I've been doing. Then one image without form came, and I quit. Look for someone else to tend the shop. I'm out of the image-making business. Finally I know the freedom of madness. A random image arrives. I scream, "Get out!" It disintegrates. Only love. Only the holder the flag fits into, and wind. No flag.
One day a sufi sees an empty food sack hanging on a nail. He begins to turn and tear his shirt, saying, Foodfor what needs no food! A cure for hunger! His burning grows and others join him, shouting and moaning in the love-fire. An idle passerby comments, "It's only an empty sack." The sufi says, Leave. You want what we do not want. You are not a lover. A lover's food is the love of bread, not the bread. No one who really loves, loves existence. Lovers have nothing to do with existence. They collect the interest without the capital. No wings, yet they fly all over the world. No hands, but they carry the polo ball from the field. That dervish got a sniff of reaa ity. Now he weaves baskets of pure vision. Lovers pitch tents on a field Of nowhere. They are all one color like that field. A nursing baby does not know the taste of roasted meat. To a spirit the foodless scent i, food. To an Egyptian, the Nile looks bloody. To an Israelite, clear. What is a highway to one is disaster to the other.
A man on his deathbed left instructions for dividing up his goods among his three sons. He had devoted his entire spirit to those sons. They stood like cypress trees around him, quiet and strong. He told the town judge, "Whichever of my sons is laziest, give him all the inheritance." Then he died, and the judge turned to the three, "Each of you must give some account of your laziness, so I can understand just how you are lazy." Mystics are experts in laziness. They rely on it, because they continuously see God working all around them. The harvest keeps coming in, yet they never even did the plowing! "Come on. Say something about the ways you are lazy." Every spoken word is a covering for the inner self. A little curtain-flick no wider than a slice of roast meat can reveal hundreds of exploding suns. Even if what is being said is trivial and wrong, the listener hears the source. One breeze comes from across a garden. Another from across the ash-heap. Think how different the voices of the fox and the lion, and what they tell you! Hearing someone is lifting the lid off the cooking pot. You learn what's for supper. Though some people can know just by the smell, a sweet stew from a sour soup cooked with vinegar. A man taps a clay pot before he buys it to know by the sound if it has a crack. The eldest of the three brothers told the judge, "I can know a man by his voice, and if he won't speak, I wait three days, and then I know him intuitively." The second brother, "I know him when he speaks, and if he won't talk, I strike up a conversation." "But what if he knows that trick?" asked the judge. Which reminds me of the mother who tells her child, "When you're walking through the graveyard at night and you see a boogeyman, run at it, and it will go away." "But what," replies the child, "if the boogeyman's mother has told it to do the same thing? Boogeymen have mothers too." The second brother had no answer. The judge then asked the youngest brother, "What if a man cannot be made to say anything? How do you learn his hidden nature?" "I sit in front of him in silence, and set up a ladder made of patience, and if in his presence a language from beyond joy and beyond grief begins to pour from my chest, I know that his soul is as deep and bright as the star Canopus rising over Yemen. And so when I start speaking a powerful right arm of words sweeping down, I know him from what I say, and how I say it, because there's a window open between us, mixing the night air of our beings." The youngest was, obviously, the laziest. He won.
Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu, Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion or cultural system. I am not from the East or the West, not out of the ocean or up from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not composed of elements at all. I do not exist, am not an entity in this world or the next, did not descend from Adam and Eve or any origin story. My place is placeless, a trace of the traceless. Neither body or soul. I belong to the beloved, have seen the two worlds as one and that one call to and know, first, last, outer, inner, only that breath breathing human being.
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There is a way between voice and presence where information flows. In disciplined silence it opens. With wandering talk it closesContents
Springtime - when ecstasy seems the natural way to be and any other out of tune with the season of soul growth. Song, airy silence, a lively conversation between plants. No urgency about what gets said or not said. We feel part of some hilarious nub pulling up through the surface into light or lying back in a wagon going who knows where.
The weather of Spring in Persia and Turkey and in the southeastern United States is all one long extravagant absorption with ground and sky, the fragrances and what unfolds from within. In lucky places such as these, Spring is not so much a metaphor for a state of attunement as it is that attunement. Or say it this way: for a mystic, the inner world is a weather that contains the universe and uses it as symbolic language.
Again, the violet bows to the lily. Again, the rose is tearing off her gown! The green ones have come from the other world, tipsy like the breeze up to some new foolishness. Again, near the top of the mountain the anemone's sweet features appear. The hyacinth speaks formally to the jasmine, "Peace be with you." "And peace to you, lad! Come walk with me in this meadow." Again, there are sufis everywhre! The bud is shy, but the wind removes her veil suddenly, "My friend!" The Friend is here like water in the stream, like a lotus on the water. The narcissus winks at the wisteria, "Whenever you say." And the clove to the willow, "You are the one I hope for." The willow replies, "Consider these chambers of mine yours. Welcome!" The apple, "Orange, why the frown?" "So that those who mean harm will not see my beauty." The ringdove comes asking, "Where, where is the Friend?" With one note the nightingale indicates the rose. Again, the season of Spring has come and a spring-source rises under everything, a moon sliding from the shadows. Many things must be left unsaid, because it's late, but whatever conversation we haven't had tonight, we'll have tomorrow.
Don't worry about saving these songs! And if one of our instruments breaks, it doesn't matter. We have fallen into the place where everything is music. The strumming and the flute notes rise into the atmosphere, and even if the whole world's harp should burn up, there will still be hidden instruments playing. So the candle flickers and goes out. We have a piece of flint, and a spark. This singing art is sea foam. The graceful movements come from a pearl somewhere on the ocean floor. Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge of driftwood along the beach, wanting! They derive from a slow and powerful root that we can't see. Stop the words now. Open the window in the center of your chest, and let the spirits fly in and out.
When I see your face, the stones start spinning! You appear; all studying wanders. I lose my place. Water turns pearly. Fire dies down and doesn't destroy. In your presence I don't want what I thought I wanted, those three little hanging lamps. Inside your face the ancient manuscripts seem like rusty mirrors. You breathe; new shapes appear, and the music of a desire as widespread as Spring begins to move like a great wagon. Drive slowly. Some of us walking alongside are lame!
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Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened. Don't open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument. Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
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Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense.
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The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Don't go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep.
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I would love to kiss you. The price of kissing is your life. Now my loving is running toward my life shouting, What a bargain, let's buy it.
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Daylight, full of small dancing particles and the one great turning, our souls are dancing with you, without feet, they dance. Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?
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They try to say what you are, spiritual or sexual? They wonder about Solomon and all his wives. In the body of the world, they say, there is a soul and you are that. But we have ways within each other that will never be said by anyone.
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Come to the orchard in Spring. There is light and wine, and sweethearts in the pomegranate flowers. If you do not come, these do not matter. If you do come, these do not matter.
Everyone has eaten and fallen asleep. The house is empty. We walk out to the garden to let the apple meet the peach, to carry messages between rose and jasmine. Spring is Christ, raising martyred plants from their shrouds. Their mouths open in gratitude, wanting to be kissed. The glow of the rose and the tulip means a lamp is inside. A leaf trembles. I tremble in the wind-beauty like silk from Turkestan. The censer fans into flame. This wind is the Holy Spirit. The trees are Mary. Watch how husband and wife play subtle games with their hands. Cloudy pearls from Aden are thrown across the lovers, as is the marriage custom. The scent of Joseph's shirt comes to Jacob. A red carnelian of Yemeni laughter is heard by Muhammad in Mecca. We talk about this and that. There's no rest except on these branching moments.
Light again, and the one whc, brings light! Change the way you live! From the ocean vat, wine firc in each cup! Two or three of the long dead wake up. Two or three drunks become lion hunters. Sunlight washes a dark face. The flower of what's true opens in the face. Meadowgrass and garden ground grow damp again. A strong light like fingers massages our heads. No dividing these fingers fromn those. Draw back the lock bolt. One level flows into another. Heat seeps into everything. The passionate pots boil. Clothing tears into the air. Poets fume shreds of steam, never so happy as out in the light!
Steam fills the bath, and frozen figures on the wall open their eyes, wet and round, Narcissus eyes that see enormous distances, and new ears that love the details of any story. The figures dance like friends diving and coming up and diving again. Steam spills into the courtyard. It's the noise of resurrection! They move from one corner laughing across to the opposite corner. No one notices how steam opens the rose of each mind, fills every beggar's cup solid with coins. Hold out a basket. It fills up so well that emptiness becomes what you want. The judge and the accused forget the sentencing. Someone stands up to speak, and the wood of the table becomes holy. The tavern in that second is actually made of wine. The dead drink it in. Then the steam evaporates. Figures sink back into the wall, eyes blank, ears just lines. Now it's happening again, outside. The garden fills with bird and leaf sounds. We stand in the wake of this chattering and grow airy. How can anyone say what happens, even if each of us dips a pen a hundred million times into ink?
I feel like the ground, astonished at what the atmosphere has brought to it. What I know is growing inside me. Rain makes every molecule pregnant with a mystery. We groan with women in labor. The ground cries out, I Am Truth and Glory Is Here, breaks open, and a camel is born out of it. A branch falls from a tree, and there's a snake. Muhammad said, A faithful believer is a good camel, always looking to its master, who takes perfect care. He brands the flank. He sets out hay. He binds the knees with reasonable rules, and now he loosens all bindings and lets his camel dance, tearing the bridle and ripping the blankets. The field itself sprouts new forms, while the camel dances over them, imaginary plants no one has thought of, but all these new seeds, no matter how they try, do not reveal the other sun. They hide it. Still, the effort is joy, one by one to keep uncovering pearls in oyster shells.
Who gets up early to discover the moment light begins? Who finds us here circling, bewildered, like atoms? Who comes to a spring thirsty and sees the moon reflected in it? Who, like Jacob blind with grief and age, smells the shirt of his lost son and can see again? Who lets a bucket down and brings up a flowing prophet? Or like Moses goes for fire and finds what burns inside the sunrise? Jesus slips into a house to escape enemies, and opens a door to the other world. Solomon cuts open a fish, and there's a gold ring. Omar storms in to kill the prophet and leaves with blessings. Chase a deer and end up everywhere! An oyster opens his mouth to swallow one drop. Now there's a pearl. A vagrant wanders empty ruins. Suddenly he's wealthy. But don't be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others. Unfold your own myth, without complicated explanation, so everyone will understand the passage, We have opened you. Start walking toward Shams. Your legs will get heavy and tired. Then comes a moment of feeling the wings you've grown, lifting.
Spring, and everything outside is growing, even the tall cypress tree. We must not leave this place. Around the lip of the cup we share, these words, My Life Is Not Mine. If someone were to play music, it would have to be very sweet. We're drinking wine, but not through lips. We're sleeping it off, but not in bed. Rub the cup across your forehead. This day is outside living and dying. Give up wanting what other people have. That way you're safe. "Where, where can I be safe?" you ask. This is not a day for asking questions, not a day on any calendar. This day is conscious of itself. This day is a lover, bread, and gentleness, more manifest than saying can say. Thoughts take form with words, but this daylight is beyond and before thinking and imagining. Those two, they are so thirsty, but this gives smoothness to water. Their mouths are dry, and they are tired. The rest of this poem is too blurry for them to read.
It's lucky to hear the flutes for dancing coming down the road. The ground is glowing. The table set in the yard. We will drink all this wine tonight because it's Spring. It is. It's a growing sea. We're clouds over the sea, or flecks of matter in the ocean when the ocean seems lit from within. I know I'm drunk when I start this ocean talk. Would you like to see the moon split in half with one throw?
This mirror inside me shows... I can't say what, but I can't not know! I run from body. I run from spirit. I do not belong anywhere. I'm not alive! You smell the decay? You talk about my craziness. Listen rather to the honed-blade sanity I say. This gourd head on top of a dervish robe, do I look like someone you know? This dipper gourd full of liquid, upside down and not spilling a drop! Or if it spills, it drops into God and rounds into pearls. I form a cloud over that ocean and gather spellings. When Shams is here, I rain. After a day or two, lilies sprout, the shape of my tongue.
The same wind that uproots trees makes the grasses shine. The lordly wind loves the weakness and the lowness of grasses. Never brag of being strong. The axe doesn't worry how thick the branches are. It cuts them to pieces. But not the leaves. It leaves the leaves alone. A flame doesn't consider the size of the woodpile. A butcher doesn't run from a flock of sheep. What is form in the presence of reality? Very feeble. Reality keeps the sky turned over like a cup above us, revolving. Who turns the sky wheel? The universal intelligence. And the motion of the body comes from the spirit like a waterwheel that's held in a stream. The inhaling-exhaling is from spirit, now angry, now peaceful. Wind destroys, and wind protects. "There is no reality but God," says the completely surrendered sheikh, who is an ocean for all beings. The levels of creation are straws in that ocean. The movement of the straws comes from an agitation in the water. When the ocean wants the straws calm, it sends them close to shore. When it wants them back in the deep surge, it does with them as the wind does with the grasses. This never ends.
A certain young man was asking around, "I need to find a wise person. I have a problem." A bystander said, "There's no one with intelligence in our town except that man over there playing with the children, the one riding the stick-horse. He has keen, fiery insight and vast dignity like the night sky, but he conceals it in the madness of child's play." The young seeker approached the children, "Dear father, you who have become as a child, tell me a secret." "Go away. This is not a day for secrets." "But please! Ride your horse this way, just for a minute." The sheik play-galloped over. "Speak quickly. I can't hold this one still for long. Whoops. Don't let him kick you. This is a wild one!" The young man felt he couldn't ask his serious question in the crazy atmosphere, so he joked, "I need to get married. Is there someone suitable on this street?" "There are three kinds of women in the world. Two are griefs, and one is a treasure to the soul. The first, when you marry her, is all yours. The second is half-yours, and the third is not yours at all. Now get out of here, before this horse kicks you in the head! Easy now!" The sheikh rode off among the children. The young man shouted, "Tell me more about the kinds of women! " The sheikh, on his cane horsie, came closer, "The virgin of your first love is all yours. She will make you feel happy and free. A childless widow is the second. She will be half-yours. The third, who is nothing to you, is a married woman with a child. By her first husband she had a child, and all her love goes into that child. She will have no connection with you. Now watch out. Back away. I'm going to turn this rascal around!" He gave a loud whoop and rode back, calling the children around him. "One more question, Master!" The sheikh circled, "What is it? Quickly! That rider over there needs me. "I think I'm in love." "What is this playing that you do? Why do you hide your intelligence so?" "The people here want to put me in charge. They want me to be judge, magistrate, and interpreter of all the texts. The knowing I have doesn't want that. It wants to enjoy itself. I am a plantation of sugarcane, and at the same time I'm eating the sweetness." Knowledge that is acquired is not like this. Those who have it worry if audiences like it or not. It's a bait for popularity. Disputational knowing wants customers. It has no soul. Robust and energetic before a responsive crowd, it slumps when no one is there. The only real customer is God. Chew quietly your sweet sugarcane God-Love, and stay playfully childish. Your face will turn rosy with illumination like the redbud flowers.
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Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absentminded. Someone sober will worry about things going badly. Let the lover be.
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All day and night, music, a quiet, bright reedsong. If it fades, we fade.Contents
We know separation so well because we've tasted the union. The reed flute makes music because it has already experienced changing mud and rain and light into sugarcane. Longing becomes more poignant if in the distance you can't tell whether your friend is going away or coming back. The pushing away pulls you in.
Sometimes I forget completely what companionship is. Unconscious and insane, I spill sad energy everywhere. My story gets told in various ways: a romance, a dirty joke, a war, a vacancy. Divide up my forgetfulness to any number, it will go around. These dark suggestions that I follow, are they part of some plan? Friends, be careful. Don't come near me out of curiosity, or sympathy.
One night in the desert a poor Bedouin woman has this to say to her husband, "Everyone is happy and prosperous, except us! We have no bread. We have no spices. We have no water jug. We barely have any clothes. No blankets for the night. We fantasize that the full moon is a cake. We reach for it! We're an embarrassment even to the beggars. Everyone avoids us. Arab men are supposed to be generous warriors, but look at you, stumbling around! If some guest were to come to us, we'd steal his rags when he fell asleep. Who is your guide that leads you to this? We can't even get a handful of lentils! Ten years' worth of nothing, that's what we are!" She went on and on. "If God is abundant, we must be following an imposter. Who's leading us? Some fake, that always says, Tomorrow, illumination will bring you treasure, tomorrow. As everyone knows, that never comes. Though I guess, it happens very rarely, sometimes, that a disciple following an vmposter can somehow surpass the pretender. But still I want to know what this deprivation says about us." The husband replied, finally, "How long will you complain about money and our prospects for money? The torrent of our life has mostly gone by. Don't worry about transient things. Think how the animals live. The dove on the branch giving thanks. The glorious singing of the nightingale. The gnat. The elephant. Every living thing trusts in God for its nourishment. These pains that you feel are messengers. Listen to them. Turn them to sweetness. The night is almost over. You were young once, and content. Now you think about money all the time. You used to be that money. You were a healthy vine. Now you're a rotten fruit. You ought to be growing sweeter and sweeter, but you've gone bad. As my wife, you should be equal to me. Like a pair of boots, if one is too tight, the pair is of no use. Like two folding doors, we can't be mismatched. A lion does not mate with a wolf." So this man, who was happily poor, scolded his wife until daybreak, when she responded, "Don't talk to me about your high station! Look how you act! Spiritual arrogance is the ugliest of all things. It's like a day that's cold and snowy, and your clothes are wet too! It's too much to bear! And don't call me your mate, you fraud! You scramble after scraps of bone with the dogs. You're not as satisfied as you pretend! You're the snake and the snake charmer at the same time, but you don't know it. You're charming a snake for money, and the snake is charming you. You talk about God a lot, and you make me feel guilty by using that word. You better watch out! That word will poison you, if you use it to have power over me." So the rough volume of her talking fell on the husband, and he fought back, "Woman, this poverty is my deepest joy. This bare way of life is honest and beautiful. We can hide nothing when we're like this. You say I'm really arrogant and greedy, and you say I'm a snake charmer and a snake, but those nicknames are for you. In your anger and your wantings you see those qualities in me. I want nothing from this world. You're like a child that has turned round and round, and now you think the house is turning. It's your eyes that see wrong. Be patient, and you'll see the blessings and the lord's light in how we live." This argument continued throughout the day, and even longer.
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A night full of talking that hurts, my worst held-back secrets. Everything has to do with loving and not loving. This night will pass. Then we have work to do.
You miss the garden, because you want a small fig from a random tree. You don't meet the beautiful woman. You're joking with an old crone. It makes me want to cry how she detains you, stinking mouthed, with a hundred talons, putting her head over the roof edge to call down, So tasteless fig, fold over fold, empty as dry-rotten garlic. She has you tight by the belt, even though there's no flower and no milk inside her body. Death will open your eyes to what her face is: leather spine of a black lizard. No more advice. Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.
You're sitting here with us, but you're also out walking in a field at dawn. You are yourself the animal we hunt when you come with us on the hunt. You're in your body like a plant is solid in the ground, yet you're wind. You're the diver's clothes lying empty on the beach. You're the fish. In the ocean are many bright strands and many dark strands like veins that are seen when a wing is lifted up. Your hidden self is blood in those, those veins that are lute strings that make ocean music, not the sad edge of surf, but the sound of no shore.
Has anyone seen the boy who used to come here? Round-faced troublemaker, quick to find a joke, slow to be serious. Red shirt, perfect coordination, sly, strong muscles, with things always in his pocket: reed flute, ivory pick, polished and ready for his talent. You know that one. Have you heard stories about him? Pharaoh and the whole Egyptian world collapsed for such a Joseph. I'd gladly spend years getting word of him, even third or fourth-hand.
My worst habit is I get so tired of winter I become a torture to those I'm with. If you're not here, nothing grows. I lack clarity. My words tangle and knot up. How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river. How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you. When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools, dig a way out through the bottom to the ocean. There is a secret medicine given only to those who hurt so hard they can't hope. The hopers would feel slighted if they knew. Look as long as you can at the friend you love, no matter whether that friend is moving away from you or coming back toward you.
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Don't let your throat tighten with fear. Take sips of breath all day and night, before death closes your mouth.
Dissolver of sugar, dissolve me, if this is the time. Do it gently with a touch of a hand, or a look. Every morning I wait at dawn. That's when it's happened before. Or do it suddenly like an execution. How else can I get ready for death? You breathe without a body like a spark. You grieve, and I begin to feel lighter. You keep me away with your arm, but the keeping away is pulling me in.
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Pale sunlight, pale the wall. Love moves away. The light changes. I need more grace than I thought.Contents
Sufis call the wantings nafs. From the urgent way lovers want each other to the sannyasin's search for truth, all moving is from the mover. Every pull draws us to the ocean. Rumi says it's importantto live the wantings as they come and not get stuck somewhere, stagnant. He was asked once what tr do about a young man caught doing some indecent act. The story doesn't mention what exactly - masturbation, peeping-tomming, whatever wild wantings young men think to do.
Rumi told them not to worry about it. "It just means he's growing his feathers. The dangerous case is a kid who doesn't do indecent acts, who then leaves the nest without feathers. One flap and the cat has him." Be careful, Rumi suggests, about shaming sexual behavior in an adolescent or anyone who hasn't yet had his or her fill of erotic trancing. Often, the closest we come to surrender is orgasm. In Rumi's symbology the rooster is a symbol for that energy.
So how did Husam kill his rooster? By dissolving into the play. The nafs are energies that keep us moving, stopping nowhere. Union with the divine continually unfolds. Next to the glowing drive-in movie, the junkyard's rusted stacks of old desire-bodies. Let the beauty we love keep turning into action, transmuting to another, another.
What have I ever lost by dying? Rumi asks, exchanging one set of nafs for the next. Chopped rooster energy becomes another dining room story. Particles of praise shine in the sunlight. Anything you grab hold of on the bank breaks with the river's pressure. When you do things from your soul, the river itself moves through you. Freshness and a deep joy are signs of the current.
Someone offhand to the Caliph of Egypt, "The King of Mosul has a concubine like no other, more beautiful than I can describe. She looks like this." He draws her likeness on paper. The Caliph drops his cup. Immediately he sends his captain to Mosul with an army of thousands. The siege goes on for a week, with many casualties, the walls and the towers unsteady, as soft as wax. The King of Mosul sends an envoy. "Why this killing? If you want the city, I will leave and you can have it! If you want more wealth, that's even easier." The captain takes out the piece of paper with the girl's picture on it. This. The strong King of Mosul is quick to reply. "Lead her out. The idol belongs with the idolater." When the captain sees her, he falls in love like the Caliph. Don't laugh at this. This loving is also part of infinite love, without which the world does not evolve. Objects move from inorganic to vegetation to selves endowed with spirit through the urgency of every love that wants to come to perfection. This captain thinks the soil looks fertile, so he sows his seed. Sleeping, he sees the girl in a dream. He makes love to her image, and his semen spurts out. After a while he begins to wake. Slowly he senses the girl is not there. "I have given my seed into nothing. I shall put this tricky woman to a test." A leader who is not captain of his body is not one to be honored, with his semen spilled so in the sand. Now he loses all control. He doesn't care about the Caliph, or about dying. "I am in love," he says. Do not act in such heat. Take counsel with a master. But the captain couldn't. His infatuation is a blackwater wave carrying him away. Something that doesn't exist makes a phantom appear in the darkness of a well, and the phantom itself becomes strong enough to throw actual lions into the hole. More advice: it is dangerous to let other men have intimate connections with the women in your care. Cotton and fire sparks, those are, together. Difficult, almost impossible, to quernh. The captain does not return straight to the Caliph, but instead camps in a secluded meadow. Blazing, he can't tell ground from sky. His reason is lost in a drumming sound, worthless radish and son of a radish. The Caliph himself a gnat, nothing. But just as this cultivator tears off the woman's pants and lies down between her legs, his penis moving straight to the mark, there's a great tumult and a rising cry of soldiers outside the tent. He leaps up with his bare bottom shining and runs out, scimitar in hand. A black lion from a nearby swamp has gotten in among the horses. Chaos. The lion jumping twenty feet in the air, tents billowing like an ocean. The captain quickly approaches the lion, splits his head with one blow, and now he's running back to the woman's tent. When he stretches out her beauty again, his penis goes even more erect. The engagement, the coming together, is as with the lion. His penis stays erect all through it, and it does not scatter semen feebly. The beautiful one is amazed at his virility. Immediately, with great energy she joins with his energy, and their two spirits go out from them as one. Whenever two are linked this way, there comes another from the unseen world. It may be through birth, if nothing prevents conception, but a third does come, when two unite in love, or in hate. The intense qualities born of such joining appear in the spiritual world. You will recognize them when you go there. Your associations bear progeny. Be careful, therefore. Wait, and be conscious, before you go to meet anyone. Remember there are children to consider! Children you must live with and tend to, born of your emotions with another, entities with a form, and speech, and a place to live. They are crying to you even now. You have forgotten us. Come back. Be aware of this. A man and a woman together always have a spiritual result. The captain was not so aware. He fell, and stuck like a gnat in a pot of buttermilk, totally absorbed in his love affair. Then, just as suddenly, he's uninterested. He tells the woman, "Don't say a word of this to the Caliph." He takes her there, and the Caliph is smitten. She's a hundred times more beautiful than he's imagined. A certain man asks an eloquent teacher, "What is true and what false?" "This is false: a bat hides from the sun, not from the idea of the sun. It's the idea that puts fear in the bat and leads it deeper into the cave. You have an idea of an enemy that attaches you to certain companions. Moses, the inner light of revelation, lit up the top of Sinai, but the mountain could not hold that light. Don't deceive yourself that way! Having the idea is not living the reality, of anything. There's no courage in the idea of battle. The bathhouse wall is covered with pictures and much talk of heroism. Try to make an idea move from ear to eye. Then your woolly ears become as subtle as fibers of light. Your whole body becomes a mirror, all eye and spiritual breathing. Let your ear lead you to your lover." So the Caliph is mightily in love with this girl. His kingdom vanishes like lightning. If your loving is numb, know this: when what you own can vanish, it's only a dream, a vanity, breath through a mustache. It would have killed you. There are those that say, "Nothing lasts." They're wrong. Every moment they say, "If there were some other reality, I would have seen it. I would know about it." Because a child doesn't understand a chain of reasoning, should adults give up being rational? If reasonable people don't feel the presence of love within the universe, that doesn't mean it's not there. Joseph's brothers did not see Joseph's beauty, but Jacob never lost sight of it. Moses at first saw only a wooden staff, but to his other seeing it was a viper and a cause of panic. Eyesight is in conflict with inner knowing. Moses' hand is a hand and a source of light. These matters are as real as the infinite is real, but they seem religious fantasies to some, to those who believe only in the reality of the sexual organs and the digestive tract. Don't mention the Friend to those. To others, sex and hunger are fading images, and the Friend is more constantly, solidly here. Let the former go to their church, and we'll go to ours. Don't talk long to skeptics or to those who claim to be atheists. So the Caliph has the idea of entering the beautiful woman, and he comes to her to do his wanting. Memory raises his penis, straining it in thought toward the pushing down and the lifting up which make that member grow large with delight. But as he actually lies down with the woman, there comes to him a decree from God to stop these voluptuous doings. A very tiny sound, like a mouse might make. The penis droops, and desire slips away. He thinks that whispering sound is a snake rising off the straw mat. The girl sees his drooping and sails into fits of laughing at the marvelous thing. She remembers the captain killing the lion with his penis standing straight up. Long and loud her laughter. Anything she thinks of only increases it, like the laughter of those who eat hashish. Everything is funny. Every emotion has a source and a key that opens it. The Caliph is furious. He draws his sword. "What's so amusing? Tell me everything you're thinking. Don't hold anything back. At this moment I'm clairvoyant. If you lie, I'll behead you. If you tell the truth, I'll give you your freedom." He stacks seven Qur'ans on top of each other and swears to do as he says. When she finally gets hold of herself, the girl tells all, in great detail. Of the camp in the meadow, the killing of the lion, the captain's return to the tent with his penis still hard as the horn of a rhino. And the contrast with the Caliph's own member sinking down because of one mouse-whisper. Hidden things always come to light. Do not sow bad seed. Be sure, they'll come up. Rain and the sun's heat make them rise into the air. Spring comes after the fall of the leaves, which is proof enough of the fact of resurrection. Secrets come out in Spring, out from earth-lips into leaf. Worries become wine-headaches. But where did the wine come from? Think. A branch of blossoms does not look like seed. A man does not resemble semen. Jesus came from Gabriel's breath, but he is not in that form. The grape doesn't look like the vine. Loving actions are the seed of something completely different, a living-place. No origin is like where it leads to. We can't know where our pain is from. We don't know all that we've done. Perhaps it's best that we don't. Nevertheless we suffer for it. The Caliph comes back to his clarity. "In the pride of my power I took this woman from another, so of course, someone came to knock on my door. Whoever commits adultery is a pimp for his own wife. If you cause injury to someone, you draw that same injury toward yourself. My treachery made my friend a traitor to me. This repetition must stop somewhere. Here, in an act of mercy. I'll send you back to the captain, saying another of my wives is jealous, and since the captain was brave enough to bring you back from Mosul, he shall have you in marriage." This is the virility of a prophet. The Caliph was sexually impotent, but his manliness was most powerful. The kernel of true manhood is the ability to abandon sensual indulgences. The intensity of the captain's libido is less than a husk compared to the Caliph's nobility in ending the cycle of sowing lust and reaping secrecy and vengefulness.
In Qazwin, they have a custom of tattooing themselves for good luck, with a blue ink, on the back of the hand, the shoulder, wherever. A certain man there goes to his barber and asks to be given a powerful, heroic, blue lion on his shoulder blade. "And do it with flair! I've got Leo ascending. I want plenty of blue!" But as soon as the needle starts pricking, he howls, "What are you doing?" "The lion." "Which limb did you start with?" "I began with the tail." "Well, leave out the tail. That lion's rump is in a bad place for me. It cuts off my wind." The barber continues, and immediately the man yells out, "Oooooooo! Which part now?" "The ear." "Doc, let's do a lion with no ears this time." The barber shakes his head, and once more the needle, and once more the wailing, "Where are you now?" "The belly." "I like a lion without a belly." The master lion-maker stands for a long time with his fingers in his teeth. Finally, he throws the needle clown. "No one has ever been asked to do such a thing! To create a lion without a tail or a head or a stomach. God himself could not do it!" Brother, stand the pain. Escape the poison of your impulses. The sky will bow to your beauty, if you do. Learn to light the candle. Rise with the sun. Turn away from the cave of your sleeping. That way a thorn expands to a rose. A particular glows with the universal. What is it to praise? Make yourself particles. What is it to know something of God? Burn inside that presence. Burn up. Copper melts in the healing elixir. So melt your self in the mixture that sustains existence. You tighten your two hands together, determined not to give up saying "I" and "we." This tightening blocks you.
No more wine for me! I'm past delighting in the thick red and the clear white. I'm thirsty for my own blood as it moves into a field of action. Draw the keenest blade you have and strike, until the head circles about the body. Make a mountain of skulls like that. Split me apart. Don't stop at the mouth! Don't listen to anything I say. I must enter the center of the fire. Fire is my child but I must be consumed and become fire. Why is there crackling and smoke? Because the firewood and the flames are still talking: "You are too dense. Go away!" "You are too wavering. I have solid form." In the blackness those two friends keep arguing. Like a wanderer with no face. Like the most powerful bird in existence sitting on its perch, refusing to move. What can I say to someone so curled up with wanting, so constricted in his love? Break your pitcher against a rock. We don't need any longer to haul pieces of the ocean around. We must drown, away from heroism, and descriptions of heroism. Like a pure spirit lying down, pulling its body over it, like a bride her husband for a cover to keep her warm.
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Someone who goes with half a loaf of bread to a small place that fits like a nest around him, someone who wants no more, who's not himself longed for by anyone else, He is a letter to everyone. You open it. It says, Live.
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The mystery does not get clearer by repeating the question, nor is it bought with going to amazing places. Until you've kept your eyes and your wanting still for fifty years, you don't begin to cross over from confusion.
Husam demands that we begin Book V. Ziya-Haqq, the radiance of truth, Husamuddin, master to the pure masters, if my human throat were not so narrow, I would praise you as you should be praised, in some language other than this word-language, but a domestic fowl is not a falcon. We must mix the varnish we have and brush it on. I'm not talking to materialists. When I mention Husam, I speak only to those who know spiritual secrets. Praise is simply drawing back the curtains to let his qualities in. The sun, of course, remains apart from what I say. What the sayer of praise is really praising is himself, by saying implicitly, "My eyes are clear." Likewise, someone who criticizes is criticizing himself, saying implicitly, "I can't see very well with my eyes so inflamed." Don't ever feel sorry for someone who wants to be the sun, that other sun, the one that makes rotten things fresh. And don't ever envy someone who wants to be this world. Husam is the sun I mean. He can't be understood with the mind, or said, but we'll stumble and stagger trying to. Just because you can't drink all that falls doesn't mean you give up taking sips of rainwater. If the nut of the mystery can't be held, at least let me touch the shell. Husam, refresh my words, your words. My words are only a husk to your knowing, an earth atmosphere to your enormous spaces. What I say is meant only to point to that, to you, so that whoever ever hears these words will not grieve that they never had a chance to look. Your presence draws me out from vanity and imagination and opinion. Awe is the salve that will heal our eyes. And keen, constant listening. Stay out in the open like a date palm lifting its arms. Don't bore mouse holes in the ground, arguing inside some doctrinal labyrinth. That intellectual warp and woof keeps you wrapped in blindness. And four other characteristics keep you from loving. The Qur'an calls them four birds. Say Bismillah, "In the name of God," and chop the heads off those mischief-birds. The rooster of lust, the peacock of wanting to be famous, the crow of ownership, and the duck of urgency, kill them and revive them in another form, changed and harmless. There is a duck inside you. Her bill is never still, searching through dry and wet alike, like the robber In an empty house cramming objects in his sack, pearls, chickpeas, anything. Always thinking, "There's no time! I won't get another chance!" A True Person is more calm and deliberate. He or she doesn't worry about interruptions. But that duck is so afraid of missing out that it's lost all generosity, and frighteningly expanded its capacity to take in food. A large group of unbelievers once came to see Muhammad, knowing he would feed them. Muhammad told his friends, "Divide these guests among you and tend to them. Since you are all filled with me, it will be as though I am the host." Each friend of Muhammad chose a guest, but there was one huge person left behind. He sat in the entrance of the mosque like thick dregs in a cup. So Muhammad invited the man to his own household, where the enormous son of a Ghuzz Turk ate everything, the milk of seven goats and enough food for eighteen people! The others in the house were furious. When the man went to bed, the maid slammed the door behind him and chained it shut, out of meanness and resentment. Around midnight, the man felt several strong urges at once. But the door! He works it, puts a blade through the crack. Nothing. The urgency increases. The room contracts. He falls back into a confused sleep and dreams of a desolate place, since he himself is such a desolate place. So, dreaming he's by himself, he squeezes out a huge amount, and another huge amount. But he soon becomes conscious enough to know that the covers he gathers around him are full of shit. He shakes with spasms of the shame that usually keeps men from doing such things. He thinks, "My sleep is worse than my being awake. The waking is just full of food. My sleep is all this." Now he's crying, bitterly embarrassed, waiting for dawn and the noise of the door opening, hoping that somehow he can get out without anyone seeing him as he is. I'll shorten it. The door opens. He's saved. Muhammad comes at dawn. He opens the door and becomes invisible so the man won't feel ashamed, so he can escape and wash himself and not have to face the door-opener. Someone completely absorbed in Allah like Muhammad can do this. Muhammad had seen all that went on in the night, but he held back from letting the man out, until all happened as it needed to happen. Many actions which seem cruel are from a deep friendship. Many demolitions are actually renovations. Later, a meddlesome servant brought Muhammad the bedclothes. "Look what your guest has done!" Muhammad smiles, himself a mercy given to all beings, "Bring me a bucket of water." Everyone jumps up, "No! Let us do this. We live to serve you, and this is the kind of hand-work we can do. Yours is the inner heart-work." "I know that, but this is an extraordinary occasion." A voice inside him is saying, "There is great wisdom in washing these bedclothes. Wash them." Meanwhile, the man who soiled the covers and fled is returning to Muhammad's house. He has left behind an amulet that he always carried. He enters and sees the hands of God washing his incredibly dirty linen. He forgets the amulet. A great love suddenly enters him. He tears his shirt open. He strikes his head against the wall and the door. Blood pours from his nose. People come from other parts of the house. He's shrieking, "Stay away!" He hits his head, "I have no understanding!" He prostrates himself before Muhammad. "You are the whole. I am a despicable, tiny, meaningless piece. I can't look at you." He's quiet and quivering with remorse. Muhammad bends over and holds him and caresses him and opens his inner knowing. The cloud weeps, and then the garden sprouts. The baby cries, and the mother's milk flows. The nurse of creation has said, Let them cry a lot. This rain-weeping and sun-burning twine together to make us grow. Keep your intelligence white-hot and your grief glistening, so your life will stay fresh. Cry easily like a little child. Let body needs dwindle and soul decisions increase. Diminish what you give your physical self. Your spiritual eye will begin to open. When the body empties and stays empty, God fills it with musk and mother-of-pearl. That way a man gives his dung and gets purity. Listen to the prophets, not to some adolescent boy. The foundation and the walls of the spiritual life are made of self-denials and disciplines. Stay with friends who support you in these. Talk with them about sacred texts, and how you're doing, and how they're doing, and keep your practices together.
There's hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness. We are lutes, no more, no less. If the soundbox is stuffed full of anything, no music. If the brain and the belly are burning clean with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire. The fog clears, and new energy makes you run up the steps in front of you. Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry. Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen. When you're full of food and drink, an ugly metal statue sits where your spirit should. When you fast, good habits gather like friends who want to help. Fasting is Solomon's ring. Dorn't give it to some illusion and lose your power, but even if you have, if you've lost all will and control, they come back when you fast, like soldiers appearing out of the ground, pennants flying above them. A table descends to your tents, Jesus' table. Expect to see it, when you fast, this table spread with other food, better than the broth of cabbages.
It's a habit of yours to walk slowly. You hold a grudge for years. With such heaviness, how can you be modest? With such attachments, do you expect to arrive anywhere? Be wide as the air to learn a secret. Right now you're equal portions clay and water, thick mud. Abraham learned how the sun and moon and the stars all set. He said, "No longer will I try to assign partnersfor God." You are so weak. Give up to grace. The ocean takes care of each wave till it gets to shore. You need more help than you know. You're trying to live your life in open scaffolding. Say Bismillah, In the name of God, as the priest does with a knife when he offers an animal. Bismillah your old self to find your real name.
Little by little, wean yourself. This is the gist of what I have to say. From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood, move to an infant drinking milk, to a child on solid food, to a searcher after wisdom, to a hunter of more invisible game. Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo. You might say, "The world outside is vast and intricate. There are wheatfields and mountain passes, and orchards in bloom. At night there are millions of galaxies, and in sunlight the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding." You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up in the dark with eyes closed. Listen to the answer. There is no "other world." I only know what I've experienced. You must be hallucinating.
Now I see something in my listeners that won't let me continue this way. The ocean flows back in and puts up a foam barrier, and then withdraws. After a while, it will come in again. This audience wants to hear more about the visiting sufi and his friends in meditation. But be discerning. Don't think of this as a normal character in an ordinary story. The ecstatic meditation ended. Dishes of food were brought out. The sufi remembered his donkey that had carried him all day. He called to the servant there, "Please, go to the stable and mix the barley generously with the straw for the animal. Please." "Don't worry yourself with such matters. All things have been attended to." "But I want to make sure that you wet the barley first. He's an old donkey, and his teeth are shaky." "Why are you telling me this' I have given the appropriate orders." "But did you remove the saddle gently, and put salve on the sore he has?" "I have served thousands of guests with these difficulties, and all have gone away satisfied. Here, you are treated as family. Do not worry. Enjoy yourself." "But did you warm his water just a little, and then add only a bit of straw to the barley?" "Sir, I'm ashamed for you." "And please, sweep the stall clean of stones and dung, and scatter a little dry earth in it." "For God's sake, sir, leave my business to me!" "And did you currycomb his back? He loves that." "Sir! I am personally responsible for all these chores!" The servant turned and left at a brisk pace... to join his friends in the street. The sufi then lay down to sleep and had terrible dreams about his donkey, how it was being torn to pieces by a wolf, or falling helplessly into a ditch. And his dreaming was right! His donkey was being totally neglected, weak and gasping, without food or water all the night long. The servant had done nothing he said he would. There are such vicious and empty flatterers in your life. Do the careful, donkey-tending work. Don't trust that to anyone else. There are hypocrites who will praise you, but who do not care about the health of your heart-donkey. Be concentrated and leonine in the hunt for what is your true nourishment. Don't be distracted by blandishment-noises, of any sort.
This is how it is when your animal energies, the nafs, dominate your soul: You have a piece of fine linen that you're going to make into a coat to give to a friend, but someone else uses it to make a pair of pants. The linen has no choice in the matter. It must submit. Or, it's like someone breaks into your house and goes to the garden and plants thorn bushes. An ugly humiliation falls over the place. Or, you've seen a nomad's dog lying at the tent entrance, with his head on the threshold and his eyes closed. Children pull his tail and touch his face, but he doesn't move. He loves the children's attention and stays humble within it. But if a stranger walks by, he'll spring up ferociously. Now, what if that dog's owner were not able to control it? A poor dervish might appear: the dog storms out. The dervish says, "I take refuge with God when the dog of arrogance attacks," and the owner has to say, "So do I! I'm helpless against this creature even in my own house! Just as you can't come close, I can't go out!" This is how animal energy becomes monstrous and ruins your life's freshness and beauty. Think of taking this dog out to hunt! You'd be the quarry.
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The light you give off did not come from a pelvis. Your features did not begin in semen. Don't try to hide inside anger radiance that cannot be hidden.
Don't run around this world looking for a hole to hide in. There are wild beasts in ever) cave! If you live with mice, the cat claws will find you. The only real rest comes when you're alone with God. Live in the nowhere that you came from, even though you have an address here. That's why you see things in two ways. Sometimes you look at a person and see a cynical snake. Someone else sees a joyful lover, and you're both right! Everyone is half and half, like the black and white ox. Joseph looked ugly to his brothers, and most handsome to his father. You have eyes that see from that nowhere, and eyes that judge distances, how high and how low. You own two shops, and you run back and forth. Try to close the one that's a fearful trap, getting always smaller. Checkmate, this way. Checkmate that. Keep open the shop where you're not selling fishhooks anymore. You are the free-swimming fish.
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Think that you're gliding out from the face of a cliff like an eagle. Think you're walking like a tiger walks by himself in the forest. You're most handsome when you're after food. Spend less time with nightingales and peacocks. One is just a voice, the other just a color.Contents
Sohbet has no English equivalent. It means something like "mystical conversation on mystical subjects." The voices in Rumi's poetry come from many points on the inner-outerspectrum. The outer conversations are contained within quotation marks, and the inner ones are continuous and permeate the entire fabric of his poetry.
On the most ordinary level, we all sometimes hear ourselves speaking from, say, some habitual pattern of meanness or acceptable optimism; then at other times we surprise ourselves by coming out with wisdom beyond our usual. There's a modulation between realities. This is similar to what happens with the fluid pronoun in Rumi's poetry. The you and I are sometimes the lover talking to the beloved, the personal self and a without-form presence within and beyond the senses.
Yet sometimes that presence, amazingly, speaks to Rumi through the poetry; voices slide back and forth within the same short poem! Often the poem serves as a slippery doorsill place between the two, "partly in my self and partly outside," the voices coming from a between-place. This expanding and contracting of identity is one of the exciting aspects of Rumi's art. Everything is conversation.
Human beings are discourse. That flowing moves through you whether you say anything or not. Everything that happens is filled with pleasure and warmth because of the delight of the discourse that's always going on. --- Discourse 53
Rumi's poetry mirrors back to us this ocean of woven speech too intricate and dynamic for any grammarian to untangle.
In the middle of the night, I cried out, "Who lives in this love I have?" You said, "I do, but I'm not here alone. Why are these other images with me?" I said, "They are reflections of you, just as the beautiful inhabitants of Chigil in Turkestan resemble each other." You said, "But who is this other living being?" "That is my wounded soul." Then I brought that soul to you as a prisoner. "This one is dangerous," I said. "Don't let him off easy." You winked and gave me one end of a delicate thread. "Pull it tight, but don't break it." I reached my hand to touch you. You struck it down. "Why are you so harsh with me?" "For good reason. But certainly not to keep you away! Whoever enters this place saying Here I am must be slapped. This is not a pen for sheep. There are no separating distances here. This is love's sanctuary. Saladin is how the soul looks. Rub your eyes, and look again with love at love."
You said, "Who's at the door?" I said, "Your slave." You said, "What do you want?" "To see you and bow." "How long will you wait?" "Until you call." "How long will you cook?" "Till the Resurrection." We talked through the door. I claimed a great love and that I had given up what the world gives to be in that love. You said, "Such claims require a witness." I said, "This longing, these tears." You said, "Discredited witnesses." I said, "Surely not!" You said, "Who did you come with?" "The majestic imagination you gave me." "Why did you come?" "The musk of your wine was in the air." "What is your intention?" "Friendship." "What do you want from me?" "Grace. " Then you asked, "Where have you been most comfortable?" "In the palace." "What did you see there?" "Amazing things." "Then why is it so desolate?" "Because all that can be taken away in a second." "Who can do that?" "This clear discernment." "Where can you live safely then?" "In surrender." "What is this giving up?" "A peace that saves us." "Is there no threat of disaster?" "Only what comes in your street, inside your love." "How do you walk there?" "In perfection." Now silence. If I told more of this conversation, those listening would leave themselves. There would be no door, no roof or window either!
A mouse and a frog meet every morning on the riverbank. They sit in a nook of the ground and talk. Each morning, the second they see each other, they open easily, telling stories and dreams and secrets, empty of any fear or suspicious holding back. To watch and listen to those two is to understand how, as it's written, sometimes when two beings come together, Christ becomes visible. The mouse starts laughing out a story he hasn't thought of in five years, and the telling might take five years! There's no blocking the speechflow-river-running all-carrying momentum that true intimacy is. Bitterness doesn't have a chance with those two. The God-messenger, Khidr, touches a roasted fish. It leaps off the grill back into the water. Friend sits by Friend, and the tablets appear. They read the mysteries off each other's foreheads. But one day the mouse complains, "There are times when I want sobbet, and you're out in the water, jumping around where you can't hear me. We meet at this appointed time, but the text says, 'Lovers pray constantly.' Once a day, once a week, five times an hour, is not enough. Fish like we are need the ocean around us!" Do camel bells say, Let's meet back here Thursday night? Ridiculous. They jingle together continuously, talking while the camel walks. Do you pay regular visits to yourself? Don't argue or answer rationally. Let us die, and by dying, reply.
The mouse asks the beloved frog, "Do you know what you are to me? During the day, you're my energy for working. At night, you're my deepest sleep. But could we be together outside of time as well as inside? Physically, we meet only at breakfast. Your absence during the rest of the day enters all my cravings! I drink five hundred times too much. I eat like a bulimic trying to die. Help me! I know I'm not worth it, but your generosity is so vast! Let your sunlight shine on this piece of dung, and dry it out, so I can be used for fuel to warm and light up a bathhouse. Look on the terrible and stupid things I've done, and cause herbs and eglantine to grow out of them. The sun does this with the ground. Think what glories God can make from the fertilizer of sinning! The mouse continues to beg, "My friend, I know I'm ugly to you. I'm ugly to me! I'm perfectly ugly! But look, you'll be sad when I die, won't you? You'll sit by my grave and weep a little? All I'm asking is, be with me that little bit of time while I'm still alive! Now. I want you NOW!" A certain rich man was accustomed to honor a sufi by giving him pieces of silver. "Would you like one piece of silver now, Lord of my Spirit, or three at breakfast tomorrow morning?" The sufi answered, "I love the half a coin that I have already in my hand from yesterday more than the promise of a whole one today, or the promise of a hundred tomorrow. A sufi is the child of this moment." Back to the mouse, who says. "The slap of Now has cash in its hand. Give me slaps, on the neck, anywhere!" Soul of my soul of the soul or a hundred universes, be water in this now-river, so jasmine flowers will lift on the brim, and someone far off can notice the flower-colors and know there's water here. "The sign is in the face." You can look at an orchard and tell if it rained last night. That freshness is the sign. Again, the mouse, "Friend, I'm made from the ground, and for the ground. You're of the water. I'm always standing on the bank calling to you. Have mercy. I can't follow you into the water. Isn't there some way we can be in touch? A messenger? Some reminder?" The two friends decided that the answer was a long, a longing! string, with one end tied to the mouse's foot and the other to the frog's, so that by pulling on it their secret connection might be remembered and the two could meet, as the soul does with the body. The frog-like soul often escapes from the body and soars in the happy water. Then the mouse body pulls on the string, and the soul thinks, Damn. I have to go back on the riverbank and talk with that scatter brained mouse! You'll hear more about this when you really wake up, on Resurrection Day! So the mouse and the frog tied the string, even though the frog had a hunch some tangling was to come. Never ignore those intuitions. When you feel some slight repugnance about doing something, listen to it. These premonitions come from God. Remember the story of the military elephant who would not move toward the Kaaba. Paralyzed in that direction, yet swift if pointed toward Yemen. It had some in-knowing from the unseen. So the prophet Jacob, when his other sons wanted to take Joseph out in the country for two days, had a heart-sickness about their going, and it was true, though divine destiny prevailed, despite his foreboding, as it will. It's not always a blind man who falls in a pit. Sometimes it's one who can see. A holy one does sometimes fall, but by that tribulation, he or she ascends, escapes many illusions, escapes conventional religion, escapes being so bound to phenomena. Think of how PHENOMENA come trooping out of the desert of non-existence into this materiality. Morning and night, they arrive in a long line and take over from each other, "It's my turn now. Get out!" A son comes of age, and the father packs up. This place of phenomena is a wide exchange of highways, with everything going all sorts of different ways. We seem to be sitting still, but we're actually moving, and the fantasies of phenomena are sliding through us like ideas through curtains. They go to the well of deep love inside each of us They fill their jars there, and they leave. There is a source they come from, and a fountain inside here. Be generous. Be grateful. Confess when you're not. We can't know what the divine intelligence has in mind! Who am I, standing in the midst of this thought-traffic?
A sea cow, a dugong, finds a special pearl and brings it up on land at night. By the light it gives off the dugong can graze on hyacinths and lilies. The excrement of the dugong is precious ambergris because it eats such beauty. Anyone who feeds on majesty becomes eloquent. The bee, from mystic inspiration, fills its rooms with honey. So the dugong grazes at night in the pearl-glow. Presently, a merchant comes and drops black loam over the pearl, then hides behind a tree to watch. The dugong surges about the meadow like a blind bull. Twenty times it rushes at nothing, passing the mound where the pearl is. So Satan couldn't see the spirit center inside Adam. God says, Descend, and a huge pearl from Aden gets buried under dirt. The merchant knows, but the dugong doesn't. Every clay-pile with a pearl inside loves to be near any other clay-pile with a pearl, but those without pearls cannot stand to be near the hidden companionship. Remember the mouse on the riverbank? There's a love-string stretching into the water hoping for the frog. Suddenly a raven grips the mouse and flies off. The frog too, from the riverbottom, with one foot tangled in invisible string, follows, suspended in the air. Amazed faces ask, "When did a raven ever go underwater and catch a frog?" The frog answers, "This is the force of Friendship." What draws friends together does not conform to laws of nature. Form doesn't know about spiritual closeness. If a grain of barley approaches a grain of wheat, an ant must be carrying it. A black ant on black felt. You can't see it, but if grains go toward each other, it's there. A hand shifts our birdcages around. Some are brought closer. Some move apart. Do not try to reason it out. Be conscious of who draws you and who not. Gabriel was always there with Jesus, lifting him above the dark-blue vault, the night-fortress world, just as the raven of longing carries the flying frog.
Don't go to sleep one night. What you most want will come to you then. Warmed by a sun inside, you'll see wonders. Tonight, don't put your head down. Be tough, and strength will come. That which adoration adores appears at night. Those asleep may miss it. One night Moses stayed awake and asked, and saw a light in a tree. Then he walked at night for ten years, until finally he saw the whole tree illuminated. Muhammad rode his horse through the nightsky. The day is for work. The night for love. Don't let someone bewitch you. Some people sleep at night. But not lovers. They sit in the dark and talk to God, who told David, Those who sleep all night every night and claim to be connected to us, they lie. Lovers can't sleep when they feel the privacy of the beloved all around them. Someone who's thirsty may sleep for a little while, but he or she will dream of water, a full jar beside a creek, or the spiritual water you get from another person. All night, listen to the conversation. Stay up. This moment is all there is. Death will take it away soon enough. You'll be gone, and this earth will be left without a sweetheart, nothing but weeds growing inside thorns. I'm through. Read the rest of this poem in the dark tonight. Do I have a head? And feet? Shams, so loved by Tabrizians, I close my lips. I wait for you to come and open them.
A certain person came to the Friend's door and knocked. "Who's there?" "It's me. " The Friend answered, "Go away. There's no place for raw meat at this table." The individual went wandering for a year. Nothing but the fire of separation can change hypocrisy and ego. The person returned completely cooked, walked up and down in front of the Friend's house, gently knocked. "Who is it?" "You. " "Please come in, my self, there's no place in this house for two. The doubled end of the thread is not what goes through the eye of the needle. It's a single-pointed, fined-down, thread end, not a big ego-beast with baggage." But how can a camel be thinned to a thread? With the shears of practices, with doing things. And with help from the one who brings impossibilities to pass, who quiets willfulness, who gives sight to one blind from birth. Every day that one does something. Take that as your text. Every day God sends forth three powerful energies: One, from the sperm of the father into the mother, so growth may begin. Two, a birth from the womb of the ground, so male and female may spring into existence. Three, there's a surge up from the surface into what is beyond dying, that the real beauty of creating can be recognized. There's no way to ever say this. Let's return to the two friends whose thread became single, who spell with their two letters the original word, BE. B and E tighten around subjects and objects that one knot may hold them. Two scissor blades make one cut. And watch two men washing clothes. One makes dry clothes wet. The other makes wet clothes dry. They seem to be thwarting each other, but their work is a perfect harmony. Every holy person seems to have a different doctrine and practice, but there's really only one work. Someone listening to a millstone falls asleep. No matter. The stone keeps turning. Water from the mountain far above the mill keeps flowing down. The sleepers will get their bread. Underground it moves, without sound, and without repetition. Show us where that source of speech is that has no alphabet. That spaciousness. Where we are now is a narrow fantasy that comes from there, and the actual, outside world is even narrower. Narrowness is pain, and the cause of narrowness is manyness. Creation was spoken with one sound, BE. The two letters, B and E, to record it, came after. The meaning of the sound and its resonance are one. There's no way to ever say this, in so many words! And no place to stop saying it. Meanwhile, a lion and a wolf were fighting....
At dawn a certain rich man wanted to go to the steambaths. He woke his servant, Sunqur, "Ho! Get moving! Get the basin and the towels and the clay for washing and let's go to the baths." Sunqur immediately collected what was needed, and they set out side by side along the road. As they passed the mosque, the call to prayer sounded. Sunqur loved his five-times prayer. "Please, master, rest on this bench for a while that I may recite sura 98, which begins, 'You who treat your slave with kindness."' The master sat on the bench outside while Sunqur went in. When prayers were over, and the priest and all the worshipers had left, still Sunqur remained inside. The master waited and waited. Finally he yelled into the mosque, "Sunqur, why don't you come out?" "I can't. This clever one won't let me. Have a little more patience. I hear you out there." Seven times the master waited, and then shouted. Sunqur's reply was always the same, "Not yet. He won't let me come out yet." "But there's no one in there but you. Everyone else has left. Who makes you sit still so long?" "The one who keeps me in here is the one who keeps you out there. The same who will not let you in will not let me out." The ocean will not allow its fish out of itself. Nor does it let land animals in where the subtle and delicate fish move. The land creatures lumber along on the ground. No cleverness can change this. There's only one opener for the lock of these matters. Forget your figuring. Forget your self. Listen to your Friend. When you become totally obedient to that one, you'll be free.
Imra'u 'I-Qays, King of the Arabs, was very handsome, and a poet, full of love songs. Women loved him desperately. Everyone loved him, but there came one night an experience that changed him completely. He left his kingdom and his family. He put on dervish robes and wandered from one weather, one landscape, to another. Love dissolved his king-self and led him to Tabuk, where he worked for a time making bricks. Someone told the King of Tabuk about Imra'u 'I-Qays, and that king went to visit him at night. "King of the Arabs, handsome Joseph of this age, ruler of two empires, one composed of territories, and the other of the beauty of women, if you would consent to stay with me, I would be honored. You abandon kingdoms, because you want more than kingdoms." The King of Tabuk went on like this, praising Imra'u 'I-Qays, and talking theology and philosophy. Imra'u 'I-Qays kept silent. Then suddenly he leaned and whispered something in the second king's ear, and that second, that second king became a wanderer too. They walked out of town hand in hand. No royal belts, no thrones. This is what love does and continues to do. It tastes like honey to adults and milk to children. Love is the last thirty-pound bale. When you load it on, the boat tips over. So they wandered around China like birds pecking at bits of grain. They rarely spoke because of the dangerous seriousness of the secret they knew. That love-secret spoken pleasantly, or in irritation, severs a hundred thousand heads in one swing. A love-lion grazes in the soul's pasture, while the scimitar of this secret approaches. It's a killing better than any living. All that world-power wants, really, is this weakness. So these kings talked in low tones, and carefully. Only God knows what they said. They used unsayable words. Bird language. But some people have imitated them, learned a few birdcalls, and gotten prestigious.
Don't unstring the bow. I am your four-feathered arrow that has not been used yet. I am a strong knifeblade word, not some if or maybe, dissolving in air. I am sunlight slicing the dark, Who made this night? A forge deep in the earth-mud. What is the body? Endurance. What is love? Gratitude. What is hidden in our chests? Laughter. What else? Compassion. Let the beloved be a hat pulled down firmly on my head. Or drawstrings pulled and tied around my chest. Someone asks, How does love have hands and feet? Love is the sprouting bed for hands and feet! Your father and mother were playing love games. They came together, and you appeared! Don't ask what love can make or do! Look at the colors of the world. The riverwater moving in all rivers at once. The truth that lives in Shams' face.
I wish I knew what you wanted. You block the road and won't give me rest. You pull my lead-rope one way, then the other. You act cold, my darling! Do you hear what I say? Will this night of talking ever end? Why am I still embarrassed and timid about you? You are thousands. You are one. Quiet, but most articulate. Your name is Spring. Your name is wine. Your name is the nausea that comes from wine! You are my doubting and the lightpoints in my eyes. You are every image, and yet I'm homesick for you. Can I get there? Where the deer pounces on the lion, where the one I'm after's after me? This drum and these words keep pounding! Let them both smash through their coverings into silence.
If my words are not saying what you would say, slap my face. Discipline me as a loving mother does a babbling child caught up in nonsense. A thirsty man runs into the sea, and the sea holds a sword to his throat. A lily looks at a bank of roses and wilts and says nothing. I am a tambourine. Don't put me aside till the fast dancing starts. Play me some all along. Help me with these little sounds. Joseph is most beautiful when he's completely naked, but his shirt gives you an idea, as the body lets you glimpse the glitter on the water of the soul. Even if the corpse washer birds my jaw shut, you'll still hear this song coming out of my dead-silence.
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Who sees inside from outside? Who finds hundreds of mysteries even where minds are deranged? See through his eyes what he sees. Who then is looking out from his eyes?
Who is luckiest in this whole orchestra? The reed. Its mouth touches your lips to learn music. All reeds, sugarcane especially, think only of this chance. They sway in the canebrakes, free in the many ways they dance. Without you the instruments would die. One sits close beside you. Another takes a long kiss. The tambourine begs, Touch my skin so I can be myself. Let me feel you enter each limb bone by bone, that what died last night can be whole today. Why live some soberer way and feel you ebbing out? I won't do it. Either give me enough wine or leave me alone, now that I know how it is to be with you in a constant conversation.
A shout comes out of my room where I've been cooped up. After all my lust and dead living I can still live with you. You want me to. You fix and bring me food. You forget the way I've been. The ocean moves and surges in the heat of the middle of the day, in the heat of this thought I'm having. Why aren't all human resistances burning up with this thought? It's a drum and arms waving. It's a bonfire at midnight on the top edge of a hill, this meeting again with you.
Turn from the ocean now toward dry land. When you're with children, talk about toys. From playthings, little by little, they reach into deeper wisdom and clarity. Gradually, they lose interest in their toys. They have a sense of wholeness in them already. If they were completely demented, they wouldn't play at all. Did you hear that? It's the man who was looking for treasure. He wants me to finish his story. You didn't hear him? Then he must be inside me yelling, "Over here! Come over here!" Don't think of him as a seeker, though. Whatever he's looking for, he is that himself. How can a lover be anything but the beloved? Every second he's bowing into a mirror. If he could see for just a second one molecule of what's there without fantasizing about it, he'd explode. His imagination, and he himself, would vanish, with all his knowledge, obliterated into a new birth, a perfectly clear view, a voice that says, I am God. That same voice told the angels to bow to Adam, because they were identical with Adam. It's the voice that first said, There is no Reality but God. There is only God. Husam pulls me by the ear now, "Wash your mouth! By trying to say these things, you conceal them. Just finish telling the story about the dervish who was looking for treasure. Your listeners love difficulties, not unity! Talk about world troubles. Don't distribute water from the fountain. They don't want that. In fact, they've loaded themselves with dirt clods to clog up the fountain. They'd like to shut it off!" We are listeners as well as speakers of this mystery, both of us, but who else will join this strange companionship? That's what Husam wants to know!
One dervish to another, What was your vision of God's presence? I haven't seen anything. But for the sake of conversation, I'll tell you a story. God's presence is there in front of me, a fire on the left, a lovely stream on the right. One group walks toward the fire, into the fire, another toward the sweet flowing water. No one knows which are blessed and which not. Whoever walks into the fire appears suddenly in the stream. A head goes under on the water surface, that head pokes out of the fire. Most people guard against going into the fire, and so end up in it. Those who love the water of pleasure and make it their devotion are cheated with this reversal. The trickery goes further. The voice of the fire tells the truth saying, I am not fire. I am fountainhead. Come into me and don't mind the sparks. If you are a friend of God, fire is your water. You should wish to have a hundred thousand sets of mothwings, so you could burn them away, one set a night. The moth sees light and goes into fire. You should see fire and go toward light. Fire is what of God is world-consuming. Water, world-protecting. Somehow each gives the appearance of the other. To these eyes you have now, what looks like water burns. What looks like fire is a great relief to be inside. You've seen a magician make a bowl of rice seem a dish full of tiny, live worms. Before an assembly with one breath he made the floor swarm with scorpions that weren't there. How much more amazing God's tricks. Generation after generation lies down, defeated, they think, but they're like a woman underneath a man, circling him. One molecule-mote-second thinking of God's reversal of comfort and pain is better than any attending ritual. That splinter of intelligence is substance. The fire and water themselves accidental, done with mirrors.
For sixty years I have been forgetful, every minute, but not for a second has this flowing toward me stopped or slowed. I deserve nothing. Today I recognize that I am the guest the mystics talk about. I play this living music for my host. Everything today is for the host.
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I saw you last night in the gathering, but could not take you openly in my arms, so I put my lips next to your cheek, pretending to talk privately.
Outside, the freezing desert night. This other night inside grows warm, kindling. Let the landscape be covered with thorny crust. We have a soft garden in here. The continents blasted, cities and little towns, everything become a scorched, blackened ball. The news we hear is full of grief for that future, but the real news inside here is there's no news at all.
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Friend, our closeness is this: anywhere you put your foot, feel me in the firmness under you. How is it with this love, I see your world and not you?
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Listen to presences inside poems, Let them take you where they will. Follow those private hints, and never leave the premises.Contents
Being a lover is close to being a worker. When the ruby becomes the sunrise, its transparency changes to a daily discipline. There's a story about a sufi who rips his robe and gives it the name faraji, which means "ripped open" or "happiness" or "one who brings the joy of being opened." It comes from the stem faraj, which also refers to the genitals, male and female.
The sufis teacher sees the purity of the name and the action, while others notice only his ragged appearance. Peace and compassion come as coverings are thrown open and the streaming beauty of emotion flows through the lover-worker. Rumi suggests in another poem that being human is a guest house where travelers are welcomed and entertained. The work is to be a good host at the caravanserai.
In the early morning hour, just before dawn, lover and beloved wake and take a drink of water. She asks, "Do you love me or yourself more? Really, tell the absolute truth." He says, "There's nothing left of me. I'm like a ruby held up to the sunrise. Is it still a stone, or a world made of redness? It has no resistance to sunlight." This is how Hallaj said, I am God, and told the truth! The ruby and the sunrise are one. Be courageous and discipline yourself. Completely become hearing and ear, and wear this sun-ruby as an earring. Work. Keep digging your well. Don't think about getting off from work. Water is there somewhere. Submit to a daily practice. Your loyalty to that is a ring on the door. Keep knocking, and the joy inside will eventually open a window and look out to see who's there.
What was in that candle's light that opened and consumed me so quickly? Come back, my friend! The form of our love is not a created form. Nothing can help me but that beauty. There was a dawn I remember when my soul heard something from your soul. I drank water from your spring and felt the current take me.
The lord of beauty enters the soul as a man walks into an orchard in Spring. Come into me that way again! Light the lamp in the eye of Joseph. Cure Jacob's sadness. Though you never left, come and sit down here and ask, "Why are you so confused?" Like a fresh idea in an artist's mind, you fashion things before they come into being. You sweep the floor like the man who keeps the doorway. When you brush a form clean, it becomes what it truly is. You guard your silence perfectly like a waterbag that doesn't eak. You live where Shams lives, because your heart-donkey was strong enough to take you there.
Advice doesn't help lovers! They're not the kind of mountain stream you can build a dam across. An intellectual doesn't know what the drunk is feeling! Don't try to figure what those lost inside love will do next! Someone in charge would give up all his power, if he caught one whiff of the wine-musk from the room where the lovers are doing who-knows-what! One of them tries to dig a hole through a mountain. One flees from academic honors. One laughs at famous mustaches! Life freezes if it doesn't get a taste of this almond cake. The stars come up spinning every night, bewildered in love. They'd grow tired with that revolving, if they weren't. They'd say, "How long do we have to do this!" God picks up the reed-flute world and blows. Each note is a need coming through one of us, a passion, a longing-pain. Remember the lips where the wind-breath originated, and let your note be clear. Don't try to end it. Be your note. I'll show you how it's enough. Go up on the roof at night in this city of the soul. Let everyone climb on their roofs and sing their notes! Sing loud!
You are granite. I am an empty wineglass. You know what happens when we touch! You laugh like the sun coming up laughs at a star that disappears into it. Love opens my chest, and thought returns to its confines. Patience and rational considerations leave. Only passion stays, whimpering and feverish. Some men fall down in the road like dregs thrown out. Then, totally reckless, the next morning they gallop out with new purposes. Love is the reality, and poetry is the drum that calls us to that. Don't keep complaining about loneliness! Let the fear-language of that theme crack open and float away. Let the priest come down from his tower, and not go back up!
Love has taken away my practices and filled me with poetry. I tried to keep quietly repeating, No strength but yours, but I couldn't. I had to clap and sing. I used to be respectable and chaste and stable, but who can stand in this strong wind and remember those things? A mountain keeps an echo deep inside itself. That's how I hold your voice. I am scrap wood thrown in your fire, and quickly reduced to smoke. I saw you and became empty. This emptiness, more beautiful than existence, it obliterates existence, and yet when it comes, existence thrives and creates more existence! The sky is blue. The world is a blind man squatting on the road. But whoever sees your emptiness sees beyond blue and beyond the blind man. A great soul hides like Muhammad, or Jesus, moving through a crowd in a city where no one knows him. To praise is to praise how one surrenders to the emptiness. To praise the sun is to praise your own eyes. Praise, the ocean. What we say, a little ship. So the sea-journey goes on, and who knows where! Just to be held by the ocean is the best luck we could have. It's a total waking up! Why should we grieve that we've been sleeping? It doesn't matter how long we've been unconscious. We're groggy, but let the guilt go. Feel the motions of tenderness around you, the buoyancy.
You that love lovers, this is your home. Welcome! In the midst of making form, love made this form that melts form, with love for the door, soul the vestibule. Watch the dust grains moving in the light near the window. Their dance is our dance. We rarely hear the inward music, but we're all dancing to it nevertheless, directed by the one who teaches us, the pure joy of the sun, our music master.
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When I am with you, we stay up all night. When you're not here, I can't go to sleep. Praise God for these two insomnias! And the difference between them.
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The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.
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We are the mirror as well as the face in it. We are tasting the taste this minute of eternity. We are pain and what cures pain, both. We are the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
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I want to hold you close like a lute, so we can cry out with loving. You would rather throw stones at a mirror? I am your mirror, and here are the stones.
An eye is meant to see things. The soul is here for its own joy. A head has one use: for loving a true love. Legs: to run after. Love is for vanishing into the sky. The mind, for learning what men have done and tried to do. Mysteries are not to be solved. The eye goes blind when it only wants to see why. A lover is always accused of something. But when he finds his love, whatever was lost in the looking comes back completely changed. On the way to Mecca, many dangers: thieves, the blowing sand, only camel's milk to drink. Still each pilgrim kisses the black stone there with pure longing, feeling in the surface the taste of the lips he wants. This talk is like stamping new coins. They pile up, while the real work is done outside by someone digging in the ground.
Learn about your inner self from those who know such things, but don't repeat verbatim what they say. Zuleikha let everything be the name of Joseph, from celery seed to aloes wood. She loved him so much she concealed his name in many different phrases, the inner meanings known only to her. When she said, The wax is softening near the fire, she meant, My love is wanting me. Or if she said, Look, the moon is up or The willow has new leaves or The branches are trembling or The coriander seeds have caught fire or The roses are opening or The king is in a good mood today or Isn't that lucky? or The furniture needs dusting or The water carrier is here or It's almost daylight or These vegetables are perfect or The bread needs more salt or The clouds seem to be moving against the wind or My head hurts or My headache's better Anything she praises, it's Joseph's touch she means. Any complaint, it's his being away. When she's hungry, it's for him. Thirsty, his name is a sherbet. Cold, he's a fur. This is what the Friend can do when one is in such love. Sensual people use the holy names often, but they don't work for them. The miracle Jesus did by being the name of God, Zuleikha felt in the name of Joseph. When one is united to the core of another, to speak of that is to breathe the name Hu, empty of self and filled with love. As the saying goes: The pot drips what is in it. The saffron spice of connecting, laughter. The onion smell of separation, crying. Others have many things and people they love. This is not the way of Friend and friend.
This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight. The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in. Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.Contents
One view of identity is that it's a structure made of what we identify with. Rumi says that identity ml !st be torn down, completely demolished along with its little tailoring shop, the patch-sewing of eating and drinking consolations. Inner work is not all ecstatic surrender.
Don't listen too often, Rumi advises, to the comforting part of the self that gives you what you want. Pray instead for a tough instructor. Nothing less than the radical disassembling of what we've wanted and gotten, and what we still wish for, allows us to discover the value of true being that lies underneath.
The pickaxes for Rumi, represents whatever does this fierce attention-work: clear discernment, a teacher's presence, simple strength, and honesty with oneself. The pickaxe dismantles the illusory personality and finds two glints in the dirt. Like eyes they are, but these jewel lights are not personal.
Rumi points to a treasure within our lives unconnected to experience. It is intrinsic, beyond calculation, a given, reached after the ego is cleared away and a one-pointedness digs under the premises.
Who makes these changes? I shoot an arrow right. It lands left. I ride after a deer and find myself chased by a hog. I plot to get what I want and end up in prison. I dig pits to trap others and fall in. I should be suspicious of what I want.
When the Prophet's ray of intelligence struck the dim-witted man he was with, the man got very happy, and talkative. Soon, he began unmannerly raving. This is the problem with a selflessness that comes quickly, as with wine. If the wine drinker has a deep gentleness in him, he will show that, when drunk. But if he has hidden anger and arrogance, those appear, and since most people do, wine is forbidden to everyone.
On Resurrection Day your body testifies against you. Your hand says, "I stole money." Your lips, "I said meanness." Your feet, "I went where I shouldn't." Your genitals, "Me too." They will make your praying sound hypocritical. Let the body's doings speak openly now, without your saying a word, as a student's walking behind a teacher says, "This one knows more clearly than I the way."
This place is a dream. Only a sleeper considers it real. Then death comes like dawn, and you wake up laughing at what you thought was your grief. But there's a difference with this dream. Everything cruel and unconscious done in the illusion of the present world, all that does not fade away at the death-waking. It stays, and it must be interpreted. All the mean laughing, all the quick, sexual wanting, those torn coats of Joseph, they change into powerful wolves that you must face. The retaliation that sometimes comes now, the swift, payback hit, is just a boy's game to what the other will be. You know about circumcision here. It's full castration there! And this groggy time we live, this is what it's like: A man goes to sleep in the town where he has always lived, and he dreams he's living in another town. In the dream, he doesn't remember the town he's sleeping in his bed in. He believes the reality of the dream town. The world is that kind of sleep. The dust of many crumbled cities settles over us like a forgetful doze, but we are older than those cities. We began as a mineral. We emerged into plant life and into the animal state, and then into being human, and always we have forgotten our former states, except in early spring when we slightly recall being green again. That's how a young person turns toward a teacher. That's how a baby leans toward the breast, without knowing the secret of its desire, yet turning instinctively. Humankind is being led along an evolving course, through this migration of intelligences, and though we seem to be sleeping, there is an inner wakefulness that directs the dream, and that will eventually startle us back to the truth of who we are.
Some commentary on I was a hidden treasure, and I desired to be known: tear down this house. A hundred thousand new houses can be built from the transparent yellow carnelian buried beneath it, and the only way to get to that is to do the work of demolishing and then digging under the foundations. With that value in hand, all the new construction will be done without effort. And anyway, sooner or later this house will fall on its own. The jewel treasure will be uncovered, but it won't be yours then. The buried wealth is your pay for doing the demolition, the pick and shovel work. If you wait and just let it happen, you'd bite your hand and say, "I didn't do as I knew I should have." This is a rented house. You don't own the deed. You have a lease, and you've set up a little shop, where you barely make a living sewing patches on torn clothing. Yet only a few feet underneath are two veins, pure red and bright gold carnelian. Quick! Take the pickaxe and pry the foundation. You've got to quit this seamstress work. What does the patch-sewing mean, you ask. Eating and drinking. The heavy cloak of the body is always getting torn. You patch it with food, and other restless ego-satisfactions. Rip up one board from the shop floor and look into the basement. You'll see two glints in the dirt.
A naked man jumps in the river, hornets swarming above him. The water is the zikr, remembering, There is no reality but God. There is only God. The hornets are his sexual remembering, this woman, that woman. Or if a woman, this man, that. The head comes up. They sting. Breathe water. Become river head to foot. Hornets leave you alone then. Even if you're far from the river, they pay no attention. No one looks for stars when the sun's out. A person blended into God does not disappear. He, or she, is just completely soaked in God's qualities. Do you need a quote from the Qur'an? All shall be brought into our Presence. Join those travelers. The lamps we burn go out, some quickly. Some last till daybreak. Some are dim, some intense, all fed with fuel. If a light goes out in one house, that doesn't affect the next house. This is the story of the animal soul, not the divine soul. The sun shines on every house. When it goes down, all houses get dark. Light is the image of your teacher. Your enemies love the dark. A spider weaves a web over a light, out of himself, or herself, makes a veil. Don't try to control a wild horse by grabbing its leg. Take hold the neck. Use a bridle. Be sensible. Then ride! There is a need for self-denial. Don't be contemptuous of old obediences. They help.
The core of masculinity does not derive from being male, nor friendliness from those who console. Your old grandmother says, "Maybe you shouldn't go to school. You look a little pale." Run when you hear that. A father's stern slaps are better. Your bodily soul wants comforting. The severe father wants spiritual clarity. He scolds but eventually leads you into the open. Pray for a tough instructor to hear and act and stay within you. We have been busy accumulating solace. Make us afraid of how we wsere. I honor those who try to rid themselves of any lying, who empty the self and have only clear being there.
A dervish knocked at a house to ask for a piece of dry bread, or moist, it didn't matter. "This is not a bakery," said the owner. "Might you have a bit of gristle then?" "Does this look like a butchershop?" "A little flour?" "Do you hear a grinding stone?" "Some water?" "This is not a well." Whatever the dervish asked for, the man made some tired joke and refused to give him anything. Finally the dervish ran in the house, lifted his robe, and squatted as though to take a shit. "Hey, hey!" "Quiet, you sad man. A deserted place is a fine spot to relieve oneself, and since there's no living thing here, or means of living, it needs fertilizing." The dervish began his own list of questions and answers. "What kind of bird are you? Not a falcon, trained for the royal hand. Not a peacock, painted with everyone's eyes. Not a parrot, that talks for sugar cubes. Not a nightingale, that sings like someone in love. Not a hoopoe bringing messages to Solomon, or a stork that builds on a cliffside. What exactly do you do? You are no known species. You haggle and make jokes to keep what you own for yourself. You have forgotten the One who doesn't care about ownership, who doesn't try to turn a profit from every human exchange."Contents
The design on the curtains is not what they conceal. Artists love shapes for enclosure, the chained cup beside the waterfall as a way of tasting the waterfall and maybe even the presence of someone meditating in the cave behind it. Forms keep splitting their chrysali, but the old harper wants one more set of silk strings.
Some sufis have seen the beauties of art as something that can slow down soul growth. Art gives a teasing taste of surrender without the full experience. Beautiful poetry can keep one on the verge of the oceanic annihilation in God. Rumi says, we've been walking in the surf holding our robes up, when we should be diving naked under, and deeper under.
The harper had grown old. I lis voice was choked sounding and harsh, and some of his harp strings were broken. He went to the graveyard at Medina and wept. "Lord, you've always accepted counterfeit coins from me! Take these prayers again, and give me enough to buy new silk strings for my harp." He put the harp down for a pillow and went to sleep. The bird of his soul escaped! Free of the body and the grieving, flying in a vast simple region that was itself, where it could sing its truth. "I love this having no head, this tasting without mouth, this memory without regret, how without hands I gather rose and basil on an infinitely stretching-out plain that is my joy." So this waterbird plunged into its ocean, Job's fountain where Job was healed of all afflictions, the pure sunrise. If this Mathnawi were suddenly sky, it could not hold half the mystery that this old poet was enjoying in sleep. If there were a clear way into that, no one would stay here! The Caliph Omar, meanwhile, was napping nearby, and a voice came, "Give seven hundred gold dinars to the man sleeping in the cemetery." Everyone understands this voice when it comes. It speaks with the same authority to Turk and Kurd, Persian, Arab, Ethiopian, one language! Omar went to the place and sat by the sleeping man. Omar sneezed, and the poet sprang up thinking this great man was there to accuse him. "No. Sit here beside me. I have a secret to tell you. There is gold enough in this sack to buy new silk strings for your instrument. Take it, buy them, and come back here." The old poet heard and realized the generosity that had come. He threw the harp on the ground and broke it. "These songs, breath by breath, have kept me minding the musical modes of Iraq and the rhythms of Persia. The minor zirafgand, the liquid freshness of the twenty-four melodies, these have distracted me while caravan after caravan was leaving! My poems have kept me in my self, which was the greatest gift to me, that now I surrender back." When someone is counting out gold for you, don't look at your hands, or the gold. Look at the giver. "But even this wailing recrimination," said Omar, "is just another shape for enclosure, another joint on the reed. Pierce the segments and be hollow, with perforated walls, so flute music can happen. Don't be a searcher wrapped in the importance of his quest. Repent of your repenting!" The old man's heart woke, no longer in love with treble and bass, without weeping or laughter. In the true bewilderment of the soul he went out beyond any seeking, beyond words and telling, drowned in the beauty, drowned beyond deliverance. Waves cover the old man. Nothing more can be said of him. He has shaken out his robe, and there's nothing in it anymore. There is a chase where a falcon dives into the forest and doesn't come back up. Every moment, the sunlight is totally empty and totally full.
I want to say words that flame as I say them, but I keep quiet and don't try to make both worlds fit in one mouthful. I keep secret in myself an Egypt that doesn't exist. Is that good or bad? I don't know. For years I gave away sexual love with my eyes. Now I don't. I'm not in any one place. I don't have a name for what I give away. Whatever Shams gave, that you can have from me.
The Prophet said, "There are some who see me by the same light in which I am seeing them. Our natures are one. Without reference to any strands of lineage, without reference to texts or traditions, we drink the life-water together." Here's a story about that hidden mystery: The Chinese and the Greeks were arguing as to who were the better artists. The king said, "We'll settle this matter with a debate." The Chinese began talking, but the Greeks wouldn't say anything. They left. The Chinese suggested then that they each be given a room to work on with their artistry, two rooms facing each other and divided by a curtain. The Chinese asked the king for a hundred colors, all the variations, and each morning they came to where the dyes were kept and took them all. The Greeks took no colors. "They're not part of our work." Instead, the Greeks went to their room and began cleaning and polishing the walls. All day every day, they made those walls as pure and clear as an open sky. There is a way that leads from all-colors to colorlessness. Know that the magnificent variety of the clouds and the weather comes from the total simplicity of the sun and the moon. The Chinese finished, and they were so happy. They beat the drums in the joy of completion. The king entered their room, astonished by the gorgeous color and detail. The Greeks then pulled the curtain dividing the rooms. The Chinese figures and images shimmeringly reflected on the clear Greek walls. They lived there, even more beautifully, and always changing in the light. The Greek art is the sufi way. They don't study books of philosophical thought. They make their loving clearer and clearer. No wantings, no anger. In that purity they receive and reflect the images of every moment, from here, from the stars, from the void. They take them in as though they were seeing with the lighted clarity that sees them.
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In your light, I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. You dance inside my chest, where no one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.
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Drumsound rises on the air, its throb, my heart. A voice inside the beat says, "I know you're tired, but come. This is the way."
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Are you jealous of the ocean's generosity? Why would you refuse to give this joy to anyone? Fish don't hold the sacred liquid in cups! They swim in the huge fluid freedom.Contents
There is a great feminine wisdom in these poems, a jemal quality as opposed to jelal. Many of the images of what it's like to be in union have this tone to them. A baby at the mother's breast. A river moving inside the personal fish, taking it to the ocean. Gnats lost in the wind. A dead donkey that has completely melded with a salt flat. The archery champion who lets the arrow fall where he stands. These are not heroic questing images.
What is it to praise? Be particles.
During a night of tornadic wind and lightning everywhere weather in north Georgia, a friend murmured, "Where do hummingbirds go in this?" The next morning the hummingbirds, the same ones, were back fussing at the feeder. They know a hiding trick the gnats don't. I think sometimes that poems can be places to hide, opisthodamal robe closets simulating the experiences they celebrate.
What is the soul? Consciousness.
Some gnats come from the grass to speak with Solomon. "O Solomon, you are the champion of the oppressed. You give justice to the little guys, and they don't get any littler than us! We are tiny metaphors for frailty. Can you defend us?" "Who has mistreated you?" "Our complaint is against the wind." "Well," says Solomon, "you have pretty voices, you gnats, but remember, a judge cannot listen to just one side. I must hear both litigants." "Of course," agree the gnats. "Summon the East Wind!" calls out Solomon, and the wind arrives almost immediately. What happened to the gnat plaintiffs? Gone. Such is the way of every seeker who comes to complain at the High Court. When the presence of God arrives, where are the seekers? First there's dying, then union, like gnats inside the wind.
We've come again to that knee of seacoast no ocean can reach. Tie together all human intellects. They won't stretch to here. The sky bares its neck so beautifully, but gets no kiss. Only a taste. This is the food that everyone wants, wandering the wilderness, "Please give us your manna and quail." We're here again with the beloved. This air, a shout. These meadowsounds, an astonishing myth. We've come into the presence of the one who was never apart from us. When the waterbag is filling, you know the water carrier's here! The bag leans lovingly against your shoulder. "Without you I have no knowledge, no way to touch anyone." When someone chews sugarcane, he's wanting this sweetness. Inside this globe the soul roars like thunder. And now silence, my strict tutor. I won't try to talk about Shams. Language cannot touch that presence.
One day the king assembled his courtiers. He handed the minister a glowing pearl. "What would you say this is worth?" "More gold than a hundred donkeys could carry." "Break it!" "Sir, how could I waste your resources like that?" The king presented him with a robe of honor for his answer and took back the pearl. He talked awhile to the assembly on various topics. Then he put the pearl in the chamberlain's hand. "What would it sell for?" "Half a kingdom, God preserve it!" "Break it!" "My hand could not move to do such a thing." The king rewarded him with a robe of honor and an increase in his salary, and so it went with each of the fifty or sixty courtiers. One by one, they imitated the minister and the chamberlain and received new wealth. Then the pearl was given to Ayaz. "Can you say how splendid this is?" "It's more than I can say." "Then break it, this second, into tiny pieces." Ayaz had had a dream about this, and he'd hidden two stones in his sleeve. He crushed the pearl to powder between them. As Joseph at the bottom of the well listened to the end of his story, so such listeners understand success and un-success as one thing. Don't worry about forms. If someone wants your horse, let him have it. Horses are for hurrying ahead of the others. The court assembly screamed at the recklessness of Ayaz, "How could you do that?" "What the king says is worth more than any pearl. I honor the king, not some colored stone." The princes immediately fell on their knees and put their foreheads on the ground. Their sighs went up like a smoke cloud asking forgiveness. The king gestured to his executioner as though to say, "Take out this trash." Ayaz sprang forward. "Your mercy makes them bow like this. Give them their lives! Let them keep hoping for union with you. They see their forgetfulness now, as the drunken man did when he said, 'I didn't know what I was doing,' and then someone pointed out, 'But you invited that forgetfulness into you. You drank it. There was a choice!' They know deeply now how imitation lulled them to sleep. Don't separate yourself from them. Look at all their heads against the floor. Raise their faces into yours. Let them wash in your cool washing place." Ayaz and his speech always get to this point and then the pen breaks. How can a saucer contain the ocean? The drunks break their cups, but you poured that wine! Ayaz said, "You picked me to crush the pearl. Don't punish the others for my drunken obedience! Punish them when I'm sober, because I'll never be sober again. Whoever bows down like they are bowing down will not rise up in his old self again. Like a gnat in your buttermilk, they've become your buttermilk. The mountains are trembling. Their map and compass are the lines in your palm." Husam, I need a hundred mouths to say this, but I only have this one! A hundred thousand impressions from the spirit are wanting to come through here. I feel stunned in this abundance, crushed and dead.
Spiritual experience is a modest woman who looks lovingly at only one man. It's a great river where ducks live happily, and crows drown. The visible bowl of form contains food that is both nourishing and a source of heartburn. There is an unseen presence we honor that gives the gifts. You're water. We're the millstone. You're wind. We're dust blown up into shapes. You're spirit. We're the opening and closing of our hands. You're the clarity. We're this language that tries to say it. You're joy. We're all the different kinds of laughing. Any movement or sound is a profession of faith, as the millstone grinding is explaining how it believes in the river! No metaphor can say this, but I can't stop pointing to the beauty. Every moment and place says, "Put this design in your carpet!" Like the shepherd in Book II, who wanted to pick the lice off God's robe, and stitch up God's shoes, I want to be in such a passionate adoration that my tent gets pitched against the sky! Let the beloved come and sit like a guard dog in front of the tent. When the ocean surges, don't let me just hear it. Let it splash inside my chest!
Hallaj said what he said and went to the origin through the hole in the scaffold. I cut a cap's worth of cloth from his robe, and it swamped over me from head to foot. Years ago, I broke a bunch of roses from the top of his wall. A thorn from that is still in my palm, working deeper. From Hallaj, I learned to hunt lions, but I became something hungrier than a lion. I was a frisky colt. He broke me with a quiet hand on the side of my head. A person comes to him naked. It's cold. There's a fur coat floating in the river. "Jump in and get it," he says. You dive in. You reach for the coat. It reaches for you. It's a live bear that has fallen in upstream, drifting with the current. "How long does it take!" Hallaj yells from the bank. "Don't wait," you answer. "This coat has decided to wear me home!" A little part of a story, a hint. Do you need long sermons on Hallaj!
My love wanders the rooms, melodious, flute notes, plucked wires, full of a wine the Magi drank on the way to Bethlehem. We are three. The moon comes from its quiet corner, puts a pitcher of water down in the center. The circle of surface flames. One of us kneels to kiss the threshold. One drinks, with wine-flames playing over his face. One watches the gathering, and says to any cold onlookers, This dance is the joy of existence.
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I am filled with you. Skin, blood, bone, brain, and soul. There's no room for lack of trust, or trust. Nothing in this existence but that existence.Contents
The existence of the beloved is not provable, nor is it fantasy. The Friend, as Rumi usually calls this presence within and infinitely beyond the senses, is elusive and nearer than the big vein on your neck; you need a mirror to see it.
The sheikh is a mirror, a reminder of that presence, and a cook. The understanding that comes through a sheikh gives nourishment and transforming energy to many. Rumi's image of a disciple is a chickpea that sprouts and enjoys the rainy garden of sexual pleasure. It matures to its hardened form, then gets picked and thrown in the cooking pot.
The cook's tending is careful and constant and, in Rumi's case, garrulous. Gradually the disciple softens and takes on flavors the cook adds. Eventually he or she becomes tasty enough to be appealing to those who in the sufi tradition are called the True Human Beings. So the chickpea moves from garden to cooking pot to a taste for the cook, finally to become sustenance for a mysterious community.
A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot where it's being boiled. "Why are you doing this to me?" The cook knocks him down with the ladle. "Don't you try to jump out. You think I'm torturing you. I'm giving you flavor, so you can mix with spices and rice and be the lovely vitality of a human being. Remember when you drank rain in the garden. That was for this." Grace first. Sexual pleasure, then a boiling new life begins, and the Friend has something good to eat. Eventually the chickpea will say to the cook, "Boil me some more. Hit me with the skimming spoon. I can't do this by myself. I'm like an elephant that dreams of gardens back in Hindustan and doesn't pay attention to his driver. You're my cook, my driver, my way into existence. I love your cooking." The cook says, "I was once like you, fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time, and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings. My animal soul grew powerful. I controlled it with practices, and boiled some more, and boiled once beyond that, and became your teacher."
Last night my teacher taught me the lesson of poverty, having nothing and wanting nothing. I am a naked man standing inside a mine of rubies, clothed in red silk. I absorb the shining and now I see the ocean, billions of simultaneous motions moving in me. A circle of lovely, quiet people becomes the ring on my finger. Then the wind and thunder of rain on the way. I have such a teacher.
I was dead, then alive. Weeping, then laughing. The power of love came into me, and I became fierce like a lion, then tender like the evening star. He said, "You're not mad enough. You don't belong in this house." I went wild and had to be tied up. He said, "Still not wild enough to stay with us!" I broke through another layer into joyfulness. He said, "It's not enough." I died. He said, "You're a clever little man, full of fantasy and doubting.' I plucked out my feathers and became a fool. He said, "Now you're the candle for this assembly." But I'm no candle. Look! I'm scattered smoke. He said, "You are the sheikh, the guide." But I'm not a teacher. I have no power. He said, "You already have wings. I cannot give you wings." But I wanted his wings. I felt like some flightless chicken. Then new events said to me, "Don't move. A sublime generosity is coming toward you." And old love said, "Stay with me." I said, "I will." You are the fountain of the sun's light. I am a willow shadow on the ground. You make my raggedness silky. The soul at dawn is like darkened water that slowly begins to say Thank you, thank you. Then at sunset, again, Venus gradually changes into the moon and then the whole nightsky. This comes of smiling back at your smile. The chess master says nothing, other than moving the silent chess piece. That I am part of the ploys of this game makes me amazingly happy.
If anyone asks you how the perfect satisfaction of all our sexual wanting will look, lift your face and say, Like this. When someone mentions the gracefulness of the nightsky, climb up on the roof and dance and say, Like this? If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is, or what "God's fragrance"' means, lean your head toward him or her. Keep your face there close. Like this. When someone quotes the old poetic image about clouds gradually uncovering the moon, slowly loosen knot by knot the strings of your robe. Like this? If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead, don't try to explain the miracle. Kiss me on the lips. Like this. Like this. When someone asks what it means to "die for love," Point here. If someone asks how tall I am, frown and measure with your fingers the space between the creases on your forehead. This tall. The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns. When someone doesn't believe that, walk back into my house. Like this. When lovers moan, they're telling our story. Like this. I am a sky where spirits live. Stare into this deepening blue, while the breeze says a secret. Like this. When someone asks what there is to do, light the candle in his hand. Like this. How did Joseph's scent come to Jacob? Huuuuu. How did Jacob's sight return? Huuuu. A little wind cleans the eyes. Like this. When Shams comes back from Tabriz, he'll put just his head around the edge of the door to surprise us. Like this.
Imagine the time the particle you are returns where it came from! The family darling comes home. Wine, without being contained in cups, is handed around. A red glint appears in a granite outcrop, and suddenly the whole cliff turns to ruby. At dawn I walked along with a monk on his way to the monastery. "We do the same work," I told him. "We suffer the same." He gave me a bowl. And I saw: the soul has this shape. Shams, you that teach us and actual sunlight, help me now, being in the middle of being partly in my self, and partly outside.
When I see you and how you are, I close my eyes to the other. For your Solomon's seal I become wax throughout my body. I wait to be light. I give up opinions on all matters. I become the reed flute for your breath. You were inside my hand. I kept reaching around for something. I was inside your hand, but I kept asking questions of those who know very little. I must have been incredibly simple or drunk or insane to sneak into my own house and steal money, to climb over the fence and take my own vegetables. But no more. I've gotten free of that ignorant fist that was pinching and twisting my secret self. The universe and the light of the stars come through me. I am the crescent moon put up over the gate to the festival.
On the night when you cross the street from your shop and your house to the cemetery, you'll hear me hailing you from inside the open grave, and you'll realize how we've always been together. I am the clear consciousness-core of your being, the same in ecstasy as in self-hating fatigue. That night, when you escape the fear of snakebite and all irritation with the ants, you'll hear my familiar voice, see the candle being lit, smell the incense, the surprise meal fixed by the lover inside all your other lovers. This heart-tumult is my signal to you igniting in the tomb. So don't fuss with the shroud and the graveyard road dust. Those get ripped open and washed away in the music of our finally meeting. And don't look for me in a human shape. I am inside your looking. No room for form with love this strong. Beat the drum and let the poets speak. This is a day of purification for those who are already mature and initiated into what love is. No need to wait until we die! There's more to want here than money and being famous and bites of roasted meat. Now, what shall we call this new sort of gazing-house that has opened in our town where people sit quietly and pour out their glancing like light, like answering?
You may have heard, it's the custom for kings to let warriors stand on the left, the side of the heart, and courage. On the right they put the chancellor, and various secretaries, because the practice of bookkeeping and writing usually belongs to the right hand. In the center, the sufis, because in meditation they become mirrors. The king can look at their faces and see his original state. Give the beautiful ones mirrors, and let them fall in love with themselves. That way they polish their souls and kindle remembering in others. A close childhood friend once came to visit Joseph. They had shared the secrets that children tell each other when they're lying on their pillows at night before they go to sleep. These two were completely truthful with each other. The friend asked, "What was it like when you realized your brothers were jealous and what they planned to do?" "I felt like a lion with a chain around its neck. Not degraded by the chain, and not complaining, but just waiting for my power to be recognized." "How about down in the well, and in prison? How was it then?" "Like the moon when it's getting smaller, yet knowing the fullness to come. Like a seed pearl ground in the mortar for medicine, that knows it will now be the light in a human eye. Like a wheat grain that breaks open in the ground, then grows, then gets harvested, then crushed in the mill for flour, then baked, then crushed again between teeth to become a person's deepest understanding. Lost in love, like the songs the planters sing the night after they sow the seed." There is no end to any of this. Back to something else the good man and Joseph talked about. "Ah my friend, what have you brought me? You know a traveler should not arrive empty-handed at the door of a friend like me. That's going to the grinding stone without your wheat. God will ask at the resurrection, 'Did you bring Me a present? Did you forget? Did you think you wouldn't see me?"' Joseph kept teasing, "Let's have it. I want my gift!" The guest began, "You can't imagine how I've looked for something for you. Nothing seemed appropriate. You don't take gold down into a goldmine, or a drop of water to the Sea of Oman! Everything I thought of was like bringing cumin seed to Kirmanshah where cumin comes from. You have all seeds in your barn. You even have my love and my soul, so I can't even bring those. I've brought you a mirror. Look at yourself, and remember me." He took the mirror out from his robe where he was hiding it. What is the mirror of being? Non-being. Always bring a mirror of non-existence as a gift. Any other present is foolish. Let the poor man look deep into generosity. Let bread see a hungry man. Let kindling behold a spark from the flint. An empty mirror and your worst destructive habits, when they are held up to each other, that's when the real making begins. That's what art and crafting are. A tailor needs a torn garment to practice his expertise. The trunks of trees must be cut and cut again so they can be used for fine carpentry. Your doctor must have a broken leg to doctor. Your defects are the ways that glory gets manifested. Whoever sees clearly what's diseased in himself begins to gallop on the way. There is nothing worse than thinking you are well enough. More than anything, self-corplacency blocks the workmanship. Put your vileness up to a mirror and weep. Get that self-satisfaction flowing out of you! Satan thought, "I am better than Adam," and that better than is still strongly in us. Your stream water may look clean, but there's unstirred matter on the bottom. Your sheikh can dig a side channel that will drain that waste off. Trust your wound to a teacher's surgery. Flies collect on a wound. They cover it, those flies of your self-protecting feelings, your love for what you think is yours. Let a teacher wave away the flies and put a plaster on the wound. Don't turn your head. Keep looking at the bandaged place. That's where the light enters you. And don't believe for a moment that you're healing yourself.
A mouse caught hold of a camel's lead rope in his two forelegs and walked off with it, imitating the camel drivers. The camel went along, letting the mouse feel heroic. "Enjoy yourself," he thought. "I have something to teach you, presently." They came to the edge of a great river. The mouse was dumbfounded. "What are you waiting for? Step forward into the river. You are my leader. Don't stop here." "I'm afraid of being drowned." The camel walked into the water. "It's only just above the knee." "Your knee! Your knee is a hundred times over my head!" "Well, maybe you shouldn't be leading a camel. Stay with those like yourself. A mouse has nothing really to say to a camel." "Would you help me get across?" "Get up on my hump. I am made to take hundreds like you across." You are not a prophet, but go humbly on the way of the prophets, and you can arrive where they are. Don't try to steer the boat. Don't open a shop by yourself. Listen. Keep silent. You are not God's mouthpiece. Try to be an ear, and if you do speak, ask for explanations. The source of your arrogance and anger is your lust and the rootedness of that is in your habits. Someone who makes a habit of eating clay gets mad when you try to keep him from it. Being a leader can also be a poisonous habit, so that when someone questions your authority, you think, "He's trying to take over." You may respond courteously, but inside you rage. Always check your inner state with the lord of your heart. Copper doesn't know it's copper, until it's changed to gold. Your loving doesn't know its majesty, until it knows its helplessness.
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These gifts from the Friend, a robe of skin and veins, a teacher within, wear them and become a school, with a greater sheikh nearby.
You've seen a herd of goats going down to the water. The lame and dreamy goat brings up the rear. There are worried faces about that one, but now they're laughing, because look, as they return, that goat is leading! There are many different kinds of knowing. The lame goat's kind is a branch that traces back to the roots of presence. Learn from the lame goat, and lead the herd home.Contents
The sudden opening of one's eyes to the elaborate, extravagant beauty around us. Watching Madagascan meerkats on the Discovery channel. The gorgeous dirt road down to the river. Three hundred million galaxies. The gold arounda frog's eye. The intricacy of the present moment, all the wealth we need. Rumi feels this abundance, and his gratitude for it pours out the waterfall of his work.
It may be that the clarity Rumi calls "reason" is a brilliant lawfulness that ecologists and astronomers examine as the coherence in any system, and that the mystic and the scientist both attend the same layered intelligence: the grand and precise artistry of existence.
The universe is a form of divine law, your reasonable father. When you feel ungrateful to him, the shapes of the world seem mean and ugly. Make peace with that father, the elegant patterning, and every experience will fill with immediacy. Because I love this, I am never bored. Beauty constantly wells up, a noise of springwater in my ear and in my inner being. Tree limbs rise and fall like the ecstatic arms of those who have submitted to the mystical life. Leaf sounds talk together like poets making fresh metaphors. The green felt cover slips, and we get a flash of the mirror underneath. Think how it will be when the whole thing is pulled away! I tell only one one-thousandth of what I see, because there's so much doubt everywhere. The conventional opinion of this poetry is, it shows great optimism for the future. But Father Reason says, No need to announce the future! This now is it. This. Your deepest need and desire is satisfied by the moment's energy here in your hand.
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A craftsman pulled a reed from the reedbed, cut holes in it, and called it a human being. Since then, it's been wailing a tender agony of parting, never mentioning the skill that gave it life as a flute.
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Humble living does not diminish. It fills. Going back to a simpler self gives wisdom. When a man makes up a story for his child, he becomes a father and a child together, listening.
You've heard about the qualities of Bilal. Now hear about the thinness of Hilal, which is more advanced than Bilal. He denied his nafs more than some of you who move backward, from being an illumined globe toward becoming again an opaque stone. Remember the story of the young guest who came before a certain king. "And how old are you, my lad? Tell the truth now. Say it out." "Eighteen, well seventeen. Sixteen. Actually, uh, fifteen." "Keep going! You'll end up in your mother's womb." Or the man who went to borrow a horse. "Take the gray." "No, not that one." "Why?" "It goes in reverse. It backs up." "Then turn its tail toward your home." The beast you ride is your various appetites. Change your wanting. When you prune weak branches, the remaining fruit get tastier. Lust can be redirected, so that even when it takes you backward, it goes toward shelter. A strong intention can make "two oceans wide" be the size of a blanket, or "seven hundred years" the time it takes to walk to someone you love. True seekers keep riding straight through, whereas big, lazy, self-worshiping geese unload their pack animals in a farmyard and say, "This is far enough." Do you know the story of the travelers who came to a village in early Spring? There's an abandoned house with an open door. "Why don't we wait for this cold spell to pass, this old woman's chill, they call it. Let's put our baggage in here and rest." A deep voice from inside, "No. Unload outside, then enter. This is a meeting hall of great dignity!" There are such secret sanctuaries. Although he worked in a stable as a groom, Hilal was an enlightened master. His employer did not understand Hilal's state. He knew up and down and north-south-east-west, the evidence of the senses, but nothing else. The color of the ground is in front of us, but prophetic light is hidden. One person sees a minaret. but not the bird perched there. A second person sees the bird, but not the hair it carries. A third sees minaret, bird, and hair. Until you can see the thread of the hair, the knot of awareness will not be loosened. The body is the minaret. Obedience, the bird. Or three hundred birds, or two, however you want it. The second person sees the bird, and only the bird. The hair is the secret that belongs to the bird. No nest built with such material will go unused. A song-thread flows continuously out of the bird. Try to see this bird on its clay tower, and also the hair floating in its beak. Hilal becomes ill. Nine days he lies sick in the stable. No one notices, except the prophet Muhammad, peace and blessing be upon him. He comes to visit. Hilal's employer is ecstatic. With elaborate ceremony he emerges from his upstairs room and kisses the ground in front of the Prophet. "In God's name, please honor this house." "I'm not here to visit you." "Who then?" "There is a new-moon new-man planted near here, spending the lightness of his humility like blossoms on the ground. Where is Hilal?" "I haven't seen him for days. He must be out with the mules and the horses." Muhammad runs to the stable. It's dark, and the stench of manure is strong, but all that vanishes when friendship enters. Miracles don't cause faith, but rather the scent of kindredness that unites people. Miracles overwhelm unbelief. Faith grows from friendship. With the familiar fragrance, Hilal wakes up. How could such a thing be in a stable? Through the legs of the horses he sees the robes of Muhammad! He comes crawling out from the dark corner and lays his cheek on Muhammad's feet. Muhammad puts his cheek on Hilal's and kisses his head and face. "How hidden can one be! Are you better? How are you?" How! A man sits and eats damp clay for moisture. How is it with him when a flood of fresh prophetic rainwater suddenly rides him along? How is it when a blind, filthy dog wakes up, and finds that he's a lion, and not a lion such as could be killed, but a spirit-lion who shatters sword and javelin with just his presence? How would that feel? A man crawls for years on his stomach with his eyes closed. Then one moment he opens his eyes, and he's in a garden. It's Spring. How is it to be free of HOW, loose in howlessness? Howlers sit waiting around your table. Throw them a bone! This suggestion: wash before going to the watertank. The waters there have grace enough to clean and give you peace, but wash yourself of hows before you go. Wash off all wonderings-why and workings-out-however. Don't take those with you to the big watertank. Husam! Bats don't bother Husamuddin. He's an expert on sunlight! He's written about the new moon, Hilal. Now he'll write about the full moon, the sheikh. New moon and full moon are the same. A new moon teaches gradualness and deliberation and how one gives birth to oneself slowly. Patience with small details makes perfect a large work, like the universe. What nine months of attention does for an embryo forty early mornings will do for your gradually growing wholeness.
Your intelligence is always with you, overseeing your body, even though you may not be aware of its work. If you start doing something against your health, your intelligence will eventually scold you. If it hadn't been so lovingly close by, and so constantly monitoring, how could it rebuke? You and your intelligence are like the beauty and the precision of an astrolabe. Together, you calculate how near existence is to the sun! Your intelligence is marvelously intimate. It's not in front of you or behind, or to the left or the right. Now try, my friend, to describe how near is the creator of your intellect! Intellectual searching will not find the way to that king! The movement of your finger is not separate from your finger. You go to sleep, or you die, and there's no intelligent motion. Then you wake, and your fingers fill with meanings. Now consider the jewel-lights in your eyes. How do they work? This visible universe has many weathers and variations. But uncle, oh uncle, the universe of the creation-word, the divine command to Be, that universe of qualities is beyond any pointing to. More intelligent than intellect, and more spiritual than spirit. No being is unconnected to that reality, and that connection cannot be said. There, there's no separation and no return. There are guides who can show you the way. Use them. But they will not satisfy your longing. Keep wanting that connection with all your pulsing energy. The throbbing vein will take you further than any thinking. Muhammad said, "Don't theorize about essence!" All speculations are just more layers of covering. Human beings love coverings! They think the designs on the curtains are what's being concealed. Observe the wonders as they occur around you. Don't claim them. Feel the artistry moving through, and be silent. Or say, "I cannot praise You as You should be praised. Such words are infinitely beyond my understanding."
Can you find another market like this? Where, with your one rose you can buy hundreds of rose gardens? Where, for one seed you get a whole wilderness? For one weak breath, the divine wind? You've been fearful of being absorbed in the ground, or drawn up by the air. Now, your waterbead lets go and drops into the ocean, where it came from. It no longer has the form it had, but it's still water. The essence is the same. This giving up is not a repenting. It's a deep honoring of yourself. When the ocean comes to you as a lover, marry, at once, quickly, for God's sake! Don't postpone it! Existence has no better gift. No amount of searching will find this. A perfect falcon, for no reason, has landed on your shoulder, and become yours.Contents
My sufi teacher, Bawa Muhaiyaddeen, when he saw me, and knowing my name was Barks, would go into a wolf howl for a joke and a teaching. He mirrored some need to howl that he saw there walking in. He himself would often break into spontaneous praise songs while sitting on his bed. Crying out loud for help is Rumi's point. With that vulnerable breaking open in the psyche, the milk of grace starts to flow.
One night a man was crying, Allah! Allah! His lips grew sweet with the praising, until a cynic said, "So! I have heard you calling out, but have you ever gotten any response?" The man had no answer to that. He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep. He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls, in a thick, green foliage. "Why did you stop praising?" "Because I've never heard anything back." "This longing you express is the return message." The grief you cry out from draws you toward union. Your pure sadness that wants help is the secret cup. Listen to the moan of a dog for its master. That whining is the connection. There are love dogs no one knows the names of. Give your life to be one of them.
A dragon was pulling a bear into its terrible mouth. A courageous man went and rescued the bear. There are such helpers in the world, who rush to save anyone who cries out. Like Mercy itself, they run toward the screaming. And they can't be bought off. If you were to ask one of those, "Why did you come so quickly?" he or she would say, "Because I heard your helplessness." Where lowland is, that's where water goes. All medicine wants is pain to cure. And don't just ask for one mercy. Let them flood in. Let the sky open under your feet. Take the cotton out of your ears, the cotton of consolations, so you can hear the sphere-music. Push the hair out of your eyes. Blow the phlegm from your nose, and from your brain. Let the wind breeze through. Leave no residue in yourself from that bilious fever. Take the cure for impotence, that your manhood may shoot forth, and a hundred new beings come of your coming. Tear the binding from around the foot of your soul, and let it race around the track in front of the crowd. Loosen the knot of greed so tight on your neck. Accept your new good luck. Give your weakness to one who helps. Crying out loud and weeping are great resources. A nursing mother, all she does is wait to hear her child. Just a little beginning-whimper, and she's there. God created the child, that is, your wanting, so that it might cry out, so that milk might come. Cry out! Don't be stolid and silent with your pain. Lament! And let the milk of loving flow into you. The hard rain and wind are ways the cloud has to take care of us. Be patient. Respond to every call that excites your spirit. Ignore those that make you fearful and sad, that degrade you back toward disease and death.
Sheikh Ahmad was continually in debt. He borrowed great sums from the wealthy and gave it out to the poor dervishes of the world. He built a sufi monastery by borrowing, and God was always paying his debts, turning sand into flour for this generous friend. The Prophet said that there were always two angels praying in the market. One said, "Lord, give the poor wanderer help." The other, "Lord, give the miser a poison." Especially loud is the former prayer when the wanderer is a prodigal like Sheikh Ahmad, the debtor sheikh. For years, until his death, he scattered seed profusely. Even very near his death, with the signs of death clear, he sat surrounded by creditors. The creditors in a circle, and the great sheikh in the center gently melting into himself like a candle. The creditors were so sour-faced with worry that they could hardly breathe. "Look at these despairing men," thought the sheikh. "Do they think God does not have four hundred gold dinars?" Just at that moment, a boy outside called, "Halvah, a sixth of a dirhem for a piece! Fresh halvah!" Sheikh Ahmad, with a nod of his head, directed the famulus to go and buy the whole tray of halvah. "Maybe if these creditors eat a little sweetness, they won't look so bitterly on me." The servant went to the boy, "How much for the whole lump of halvah?" "Half a dinar, and some change." "Don't ask too much from sufis, my son. Half a dinar is enough." The boy handed over the tray, and the servant brought it to the sheikh, who passed it among his creditor guests. "Please, eat, and be happy." The tray was quickly emptied, and the boy asked the sheikh for his half a gold dinar. "Where would I find such money? These men can tell you how in debt I am, and besides, I am fast on my way into non-existence." The boy threw the tray on the floor and started weeping loud and yelling, "I wish I had broken my legs before I came in here! I wish I'd stayed in the bathhouse today. You gluttonous, plate-licking sufis, washing your faces like cats!" A crowd gathered. The boy continued, "O sheikh, my master will beat me if I come back without anything." The creditors joined in, "How could you do this? You've devoured our properties, and now you add this one last debt before you die. Why?" The sheikh closes his eyes and does not answer. The boy weeps until afternoon prayers. The sheikh withdraws underneath his coverlet, pleased with everything, pleased with eternity, pleased with death, and totally unconcerned with all the reviling talk around him. On a bright-moon night, do you think the moon, cruising through the tenth house, can hear the dogs barking down here? But the dogs are doing what they're supposed to do. Water does not lose its purity because of a bit of weed floating in it. That king drinks wine on the riverbank until dawn, listening to the water music, not hearing the frog talk. The money due the boy would have been just a few pennies from each of his creditors, but the sheikh's spiritual power prevents that from happening. No one gives the boy anything. At afternoon prayers a servant comes with a tray from Hatim, a friend of Ahmad's, and a man of great property. A covered tray. The sheikh uncovers the face of the tray, and on it there are four hundred gold dmnars, and in one corner, another half a dinar wrapped in a piece of paper. Immediately the cries of abasement, "O king of sheikhs, lord of the lords of mystery! Forgive us. We were bumbling and crazed. We were knocking lamps over. We were... " "It's all right. You will not be held responsible for what you've said or done. The secret here is that I asked God and the way was shown that until the boy's weeping, God's merciful generosity was not loosened. Let the boy be like the pupil of your eye. If you want to wear a robe of spiritual sovereignty, let your eyes weep with the wanting."
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You that come to birth and bring the mysteries, your voice-thunder makes us very happy. Roar, lion of the heart, and tear me open!Contents
Ibn Khafif Shirazi tells this story: "I heard that there were two great masters in Egypt, so I hurried to reach their presence. When I arrived, I saw two magnificent teachers meditating. I greeted them three times, but they did not answer. I meditated with them for four days. Each day I begged them to talk with me, since I had come such a long way.
Finally the younger one opened his eyes. 'Ibn Khafif, life is short. Use the portion that's left to deepen yourself. Don't waste time greeting people!' I asked him to give me some advice. 'Stay in the presence of those who remind you of your lord, who not only speak wisdom, but are that.' Then he went back into meditation."
Ibn Khafif was being taught the importance of having his own experience of the unseen, and not to fret so much about the forms of greeting people, hearing wisdom, and about what we should be doing.
There is a South Indian story about soap. Soap is the dirt we buy. We introduce it to the dirt we have, and the two dirts are so glad to see each other they come out and mix! They swim together in the warm pleasurable water and, at just the right moment, the washer lifts the cloth of our true being free of both soap and dirt.
Mystical poetry and other practices may function this way, as soap that dances with what disturbs our clarity. Then at some moment they drop away and leave us clean, ready to be worn again.
Some time ago there was a man named Nasuh. He made his living shampooing women in a bathhouse. He had a face like a woman, but he was not effeminate, though he disguised his virility, so as to keep his job. He loved touching the wonder as he washed their hair. He stayed sexually alert, at full strength, all the time, massaging the beautiful women, especially the Princess and her ladies-in-waiting. Sometimes he thought of changing jobs, of doing something where he wouldn't be so constantly lustful, but he couldn't quit. He went to a mystic saint and said, "Please remember me in a prayer." That holy man was spiritually free, and totally opened to God. He knew Nasuh's secret, but with God's gentleness he didn't speak it. A gnostic says little, but inside he is full of mysteries, and crowded with voices. Whoever is served that cup keeps quiet. The holy man laughed softly and prayed aloud, "May God cause you to change your life in the way you know you should." The prayer of such a sheikh is different from other prayers. He has so completely dissolved his ego, nothinged himself, that what he says is like God talking to God. How could such a prayer not be granted? The means were found to change Nasuh. While he was pouring water into a basin for a naked woman, she felt and discovered that a pearl was missing from her earring. Quickly, they locked the doors. They searched the cushions, the towels, the rugs, and the discarded clothes. Nothing. Now they search ears and mouths and every cleft and orifice. Everyone is made to strip, and the queen's lady chamberlain probes one by one the naked women. Nasuh, meanwhile, has gone to his private closet, trembling. "I didn't steal the pearl, but if they undress and search me, they'll see how excited I get with these nude ladies. God, please, help me! I have been cold and lecherous, but cover my sin this time, PLEASE! Let me not be exposed for how I've been. I'll repent!" He weeps and moans and weeps, for the moment is upon him. "Nasuh! We have searched everyone but you. Come out!" At that moment his spirit grows wings, and lifts. His ego falls like a battered wall. He unites with God, alive, but emptied of Nasuh. His ship sinks and in its place move the ocean waves. His body's disgrace, like a falcon's loosened binding, slips from the falcon's foot. His stones drink in water. His field shines like satin with gold threads in it. Someone dead a hundred years steps out well and strong and handsome. A broken stick breaks into bud. This all happens inside Nasuh, after the call that gave him such fear. A long pause. A long, waiting silence. Then a shout from one of the women, "Here it is!" The bathhouse fills with clapping. Nasuh sees his new life sparkling out before him. The women come to apologize, "We're so sorry we didn't trust you. We just knew that you'd taken that pearl." They kept talking about how they'd suspected him, and begging his forgiveness. Finally he replies, "I am much more guilty than anyone has thought or said. I am the worst person in the world. What you have said is only a hundredth of what I've actually done. Don't ask my pardon! You don't know me. No one knows me. God has hidden my sneakiness. Satan taught me tricks, but after a time, those became easy, and I taught Satan some new variations. God saw what I did, but chose not to publicly reveal my sin. And now, I am sewn back into wholeness! Whatever I've done, now was not done. Whatever obedience I didn't do, now I did! Pure, noble, free, like a cypress, like a lily, is how I suddenly am. I said, Oh no! Help me! And that Oh no! became a rope let down in my well. I've climbed out to stand here in the sun. One moment I was at the bottom of a dank, fearful narrowness, and the next, I am not contained by this universe. If every tip of every hair on me could speak, I still couldn't say my gratitude. In the middle of these streets and gardens, I stand and say and say again, and it's all I say, I wish everyone could know what I know."
Moses heard a shepherd on the road praying, "God, where are you? I want to help you, to fix your shoes and comb your hair. I want to wash your clothes and pick the lice off. I want to bring you milk, to kiss your little hands and feet when it's time for you to go to bed. I want to sweep your room and keep it neat. God, my sheep and goats are yours. All I can say, remembering you, is ayyyy and abhhhhhhhh." Moses could stand it no longer. "Who are you talking to?" "The one who made us, and made the earth and made the sky." "Don't talk about shoes and socks with God! And what's this with your little hands and feet? Such blasphemous familiarity sounds like you're chatting with your uncles. Only something that grows needs milk. Only someone with feet needs shoes. Not God! Even if you meant God's human representatives, as when God said, 'I was sick, and you did not visit me,' even then this tone would be foolish and irreverent. Use appropriate terms. Fatima is a fine name for a woman, but if you call a man Fatima, it's an insult. Body-and-birth language are right for us on this side of the river, but not for addressing the origin, not for Allah." The shepherd repented and tore his clothes and sighed and wandered out into the desert. A sudden revelation came then to Moses. God's voice: You have separated me from one of my own. Did you come as a Prophet to unite, or to sever? I have given each being a separateand unique way of seeing and knowing and saying that knowledge. What seems wrong to you is right for him. What is poison to one is honey to someone else. Purity and impurity, sloth and diligence in worship, these mean nothing to me. I am apart from all that. Ways of worshiping are not to be ranked as better or worse than one another. Hindus do Hindu things. The Dravidian Muslims in India do what they do. It's all praise, and it's all right. It's not me that's glorified in acts of worship. It's the worshipers! I don't hear the words they say. I look inside at the humility. That broken-open lowliness is the reality, not the language! Forget phraseology. I want burning, burning. Be friends with your burning. Burn up your thinking and your forms of expression! Moses, those who pay attention to ways of behaving and speaking are one sort. Lovers who burn are another. Don't impose a property tax on a burned-out village. Don't scold the Lover. The "wrong" way he talks is better than a hundred "right" ways of others. Inside the Kaaba it doesn't matter which direction you point your prayer rug! The ocean diver doesn't need snowshoes! The love-religion has no code or doctrine. Only God. So the ruby has nothing engraved on it! It doesn't need markings. God began speaking deeper mysteries to Moses. Vision and words, which cannot be recorded here, poured into and through him. He left himself and came back. He went to eternity and came back here. Many times this happened. It's foolish of me to try and say this. If I did say it, it would uproot our human intelligences. It would shatter all writing pens. Moses ran after the shepherd. He followed the bewildered footprints, in one place moving straight like a castle across a chessboard. In another, sideways, like a bishop. Now surging like a wave cresting, now sliding down like a fish, with always his feet making geomancy symbols in the sand, recording his wandering state. Moses finally caught up with him. "I was wrong. God has revealed to me that there are no rules for worship. Say whatever and however your loving tells you to. Your sweet blasphemy is the truest devotion. Through you a whole world is freed. Loosen your tongue and don't worry what comes out. It's all the light of the spirit." The shepherd replied, "Moses, Moses, I've gone beyond even that. You applied the whip and my horse shied and jumped out of itself. The divine nature and my human nature came together. Bless your scolding hand and your arm. I can't say what has happened. What I'm saying now is not my real condition. It can't be said." The shepherd grew quiet. When you look in a mirror, you see yourself, not the state of the mirror. The flute player puts breath into a flute, and who makes the music? Not the flute. The flute player! Whenever you speak praise or thanksgiving to God, it's always like this dear shepherd's simplicity. When you eventually see through the veils to how things really are, you will keep saying again and again, "This is certainly riot like we thought it was!"
Whatever comes, comes from a need, a sore distress, a hurting want. Mary's pain made the baby Jesus. Her womb opened its lips and spoke the Word. Every part of you has a secret language. Your hands and your feet say what you've done. And every need brings in what's needed. Pain bears its cure like a child. Having nothing produces provisions. Ask a difficult question, and the marvelous answer appears. Build a ship, and there'll be water to float it. The tender-throated infant cries and milk drips from the mother's breast. Be thirsty for the ultimate water, and then be ready for what will come pouring from the spring. A village woman once was walking by Muhammad. She thought he was just an ordinary illiterate. She didn't believe that he was a prophet. She was carrying a two-month-old baby. As she came near Muhammad, the baby turned and said, "Peace be with you, Messenger of God." The mother cried out, surprised and angry, "What are you saying, and how can you suddenly talk!" The child replied, "God taught me first, and then Gabriel." "Who is this Gabriel? I don't see anyone." "He is above your head, Mother. Turn around. He has been telling me many things." "Do you really see him?" "Yes. He is continually delivering me from this degraded state into sublimity." Muhammad then asked the child, "What is your name?" "Abdul Aziz, the servant of God, but this family thinks I am concerned with world-energies. I am as free of that as the truth of your prophecy is." So the little one spoke, and the mother took in a fragrance that let her surrender to that state. When God gives this knowing, inanimate stones, plants, animals, everything, fills with unfolding significance. The fish and the birds become protectors. Remember the incident of Muhammad and the eagle. It happened that as he was listening to this inspired baby, he heard a voice calling him to prayer. He asked for watel to perform ablutions. He washed his hands and feet, and just as he reached for his boot, an eagle snatched it away! The boot turned upsidedown as it lifted, and a poisonous snake dropped out. The eagle circled and brought the boot back, saying, "My helpless reverence for you made this necessary. Anyone who acts this presumptuously for a legalistic reason should be punished!" Muhammad thanked the eagle. and said, "What I thought was rudeness was really love. You took away my grief, and I was grieved! God has shown me everything, but at that moment I was preoccupied within myself." The eagle, "But chosen one, any clarity I have comes from you!" This spreading radiance of a True Human Being has great importance. Look carefully around you and recognize the luminosity of souls. Sit beside those who draw you to that. Learn from this eagle story that when misfortune comes, you must quickly praise. Others may be saying, Ob no, but you will be opening out like a rose losing itself petal by petal. Someone once asked a great sheikh what sufism was. "The feeling of joy when sudden disappointment comes." The eagle carries off Muhammad's boot and saves him from snakebite. Don't grieve for what doesn't come. Some things that don't happen keep disasters from happening.
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If the beloved is everywhere, the lover is a veil, but when living itself becomes the Friend, lovers disappear.
A story is like water that you heat for your bath. It takes messages between the fire and your skin. It lets them meet, and it cleans you! Very few can sit down in the middle of the fire itself like a salamander or Abraham. We need intermediaries. A feeling of fullness comes, but usually it takes some bread to bring it. Beauty surrounds us, but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it. The body itself is a screen to shield and partially reveal the light that's blazing inside your presence. Water, stories, the body, all the things we do, are mediums that hide and show what's hidden. Study them, and enjoy this being washed with a secret we sometimes know, and then not.Contents
Some of Rumi's metaphors are rough, raw, and unacceptable to refined tastes. When Reynold Nicholson translated the Mathnawi into English in the 1920s, he chose to render some passages into Latin, supposing that anyone who knew enough Latin to read them would be properly shielded from taint.
Rumi uses anything human beings do, no matter how scandalous or cruel or silly, as a lens to examine soul growth. A gourd crafted to serve as a flange, allowing a donkey's penis to enter a woman's vagina just to the point of her pleasure but not far enough to harm her, becomes a metaphor for a device a sheikh might use to put limits on a disciple.
After another graphic, outrageously elaborated comparison of breadmaking with lovemaking, he concludes, "Remember. The way you make love is the way God will be with you." For Rumi, the bread of every experience offers nourishment.
Someone said, "There is no dervish, or if there is a dervish, that dervish is not there." Look at a candle flame in bright noon sunlight. If you put cotton next to it, the cotton will burn, but its light has become completely mixed with the sun. That candlelight you can't find is what's left of a dervish. If you sprinkle one ounce of vinegar over two hundred tons of sugar, no one will ever taste the vinegar. A deer faints in the paws of a lion. The deer becomes another glazed expression on the face of the lion. These are rough metaphors for what happens to the lover. There's no one more openly irreverent than a lover. He, or she, jumps up on the scale opposite eternity and claims to balance it. And no one more secretly reverent. A grammar lesson: "The lover died." "Lover" is subject and agent, but that can't be! The "lover" is defunct. Only grammatically is the dervish-lover a doer. In reality, with he or she so overcome, so dissolved into love, all qualities of doingness disappear.
Your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror up to where you're bravely working. Expecting the worst, you look, and instead, here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see. Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes. If it were always a fist or always stretched open, you would be paralyzed. Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birdwings.
Muhammad says, "I come before dawn to chain you and drag you off." It's amazing, and funny, that you have to be pulled away from being tortured, pulled out into this Spring garden, but that's the way it is. Almost everyone must be bound and dragged here. Only a few come on their own. Children have to be made to go to school at first. Then some of them begin to like it. They run to school. They expand with the learning. Later, they receive money because of something they've learned at school, and they get really excited. They stay up all night, as watchful and alive as thieves! Remember the rewards you get for being obedient! There are two types on the path. Those who come against their will, the blindly religious people, and those who obey out of love. The former have ulterior motives. They want the midwife near, because she gives them milk. The others love the beauty of the nurse. The former memorize the prooftexts of conformity, and repeat them. The latter disappear into whatever draws them to God. Both are drawn from the source. Any movings from the mover. Any love from the beloved.
Borrow the beloved's eyes. Look through them and you'll see the beloved's face everywhere. No tiredness, no jaded boredom. "I shall be your eye and your hand and your loving." Let that happen, and things you have hated will become helpers. A certain preacher always prays long and with enthusiasm for thieves and muggers that attack people on the street. "Let your mercy, 0 Lord, cover their insolence." He doesn't pray for the good, but only for the blatantly cruel. Why is this? his congregation asks. "Because they have done me such generous favors. Every time I turn back toward the things they want. I run into them, they beat me, and leave me nearly dead in the road, and I understand, again, that what they want is not what I want. They keep me on the spiritual path. That's why I honor them and pray for them." Those that make you return. for whatever reason, to God's solitude, be grateful to them. Worry about the others, who give you delicious comforts that keep you from prayer. Friends are enemies sometimes, and enemies friends. There is an animal called an ushghur, a porcupine. If you hit it with a stick, it e Ktends its quills and gets bigger. The soul is a porcupine, made strong by stick-beating. So a prophet's soul is especially afflicted, because it has to become so powerful. A hide is soaked in tanning liquor and becomes leather. If the tanner did not rub in the acid, the hide would get foul-smelling and rotten. The soul is a newly skinned hide, bloody and filthy. Work on it with manual discipline, and the bitter tanning acid of grief, and you'll become lovely, and very strong. If you can't do this work yourself, don't worry. You don't even have to make a decision, one way or another. The Friend, who knows a lot more than you do, will bring difficulties, and grief, and sickness, as medicine, as happiness, as the essence of the moment when you're beaten, when you hear Checkmate, and can finally say, with Hallaj's voice, I trust you to kill me.
This physical world has no two things alike. Every comparison is awkwardly rough. You can put a lion next to a man, but the placing is hazardous to both. Say the body is like this lamp. It has to have a wick and oil. Sleep and food. If it doesn't get those, it will die, and it's always burning those up, trying to die. But where is the sun in this comparison? It rises, and the lamp's light mixes with the day. Oneness, which is the reality, cannot be understood with lamp and sun images. The blurring of a plural into a unity is wrong. No image can describe what of our fathers and mothers, our grandfathers and grandmothers, remains. Language does not touch the one who lives in each of us.
There are two kinds of intelligence: one acquired, as a child in school memorizes facts and concepts from books and from what tne teacher says, collecting information from the traditional sciences as well as from the new sciences. With such intelligence you rise in the world. You get ranked ahead or behind others in regard to your competence in retaining information. You stroll with this intelligence in and out of fields of knowledge, getting always more marks on your preserving tablets. There is another kind of tablet, one already completed and preserved inside you. A spring overflowing its springbox. A freshness in the center of the chest. This other intelligence does not turn yellow or stagnate. It's fluid, and it doesn't move from outside to inside through the conduits of plumbing-learning. This second knowing is a fountainhead from within you, moving out.
A certain man had a jealous wife and a very, very appealing maidservant. The wife was careful not to leave them alone, ever. For six years they were never left in a room together. But then one day at the public bath, the wife suddenly remembered that she'd left her silver washbasin at home. "Please, go get the basin," she told her maid. The girl jumped to the task, because she knew that she would finally get to be alone with the master. She ran joyfully. She flew, and desire took them both so quickly that they didn't even latch the door. With great speed they joined each other. When bodies blend in copulation, spirits also merge. Meanwhile, the wife back at the bathhouse, washing her hair, "What have I done! I've set the cotton-wool on fire! I've put the ram in with the ewe!" She washed the clay soap off her hair and ran, fixing her chador about her as she went. The maid ran for love. The wife ran out of fear and jealousy. There is a great difference. The mystic flies moment to moment. The fearful ascetic drags along month to month. But also the length of a "day" to a lover may be fifty thousand years! You can't understand this with your mind. You must burst open! Fear is nothing to a lover, a tiny piece of thread. Love is a quality of God. Fear is an attribute of those who think they serve God, but who are actually preoccupied with penis and vagina. You have read in the text where "They love him" blends with "He loves them." Those joining loves are both qualities of God. Fear is not. What characteristics do God and human beings have in common? What is the connection between what lives in time and what lives in eternity? If I kept talking about love, a hundred new combinings would happen, and still I would not say the mystery. The fearful ascetic runs on foot, along the surface. Lovers move like lightning and wind. No contest. Theologians mumble, rumble-dumble, necessity and free will, while lover and beloved pull themselves into each other. The worried wife reaches the door and opens it. The maid, disheveled, confused, flushed, unable to speak. The husband begins his five-times prayer. The wife enters this agitated scene. As though experimenting with clothes, the husband holds up some flaps and edges. She sees his testicles and penis so wet, semen still dribbling out, spurts of jism and vaginal juices drenching the thighs of the maid. The wife slaps him on the side of the head, "Is this the way a man prays, with his balls? Does your penis long for union like this? Is that why her legs are so covered with this stuff?" These are good questions she's asking her "ascetic" husband! People who renounce desires often turn, suddenly, into hypocrites!
There was a maidservant who had cleverly trained a donkey to perform the services of a man. From a gourd, she had carved a flanged device to fit on the donkey's penis, to keep him from going too far into her. She had fashioned it just to the point of her pleasure, and she greatly enjoyed the arrangement, as often as she could! She thrived, but the donkey was getting a little thin and tired looking. The mistress began to investigate. One day she peeked through a crack in the door and saw the animal's marvelous member and the delight of the girl stretched under the donkey. She said nothing. Later, she knocked on the door and called the maid out on an errand, a long and complicated errand. I won't go into details. The servant knew what was happening, though. "Ah, my mistress," she thought to herself, "you should not send away the expert. When you begin to work without full knowledge, you risk your life. Your shame keeps you from asking me about the gourd, but you must have that to join with this donkey. There's a trick you don't know!" But the woman was too fascinated with her idea to consider any danger. She led the donkey in and closed the door, thinking, "With no one around I can shout in my pleasure." She was dizzy with anticipation, her vagina glowing and singing like a nightingale. She arranged the chair under the donkey, as she had seen the girl do. She raised her legs and pulled him into her. Her fire kindled more, and the donkey politely pushed as she urged him to, pushed through and into her intestines, and, without a word, she died. The chair fell one way, and she the other. The room was smeared with blood. Reader, have you ever seen anyone martyred for a donkey? Remember what the Qur'an says about the torment of disgracing yourself. Don't sacrifice your life to your animal-soul! If you die of what that leads you to do, you are just like this woman on the floor. She is an image of immoderation. Remember her, and keep your balance. The maidservant returns and says, "Yes, you saw my pleasure, but you didn't see the gourd that put a limit on it. You opened your shop before a master taught you the craft."
There was a feast. The king was heartily in his cups. He saw a learned scholar walking by. "Bring him in and give him some of this fine wine." Servants rushed out and brought the man to the king's table, but he was not receptive. "I had rather drink poison! I have never tasted wine and never will! Take it away from me!" He kept on with these loud refusals, disturbing the atmosphere of the feast. This is how it sometimes is at God's table. Someone who has beard about ecstatic love, but never tasted it, disrupts the banquet. If there were a secret passage from his ear to his throat, everything in him would change. Initiation would occur. As it is, he's all fire and no light, all husk and no kernel. The king gave orders. "Cupbearer, do what you must!" This is how your invisible guide acts, the chess champion across from you that always wins. He cuffed the scholar's head and said, "Taste!" And, "Again!" The cup was drained and the intellectual started singing and telling ridiculous jokes. He joined the garden, snapping his fingers and swaying. Soon, of course, he had to pee. He went out, and there, near the latrine, was a beautiful woman, one of the king's harem. His mouth hung open. He wanted her! Right then, he wanted her! And she was not unwilling. They fell to, on the ground.. You've seen a baker rolling dough. He kneads it gently at first, then more roughly. He pounds it on the board. It softly groans under his palms. Now he spreads it out and rolls it flat. Then he bunches it, and rolls it all the way out again, thin. Now he adds water, and mixes it well. Now salt, and a little more salt. Now he shapes it delicately to its final shape and slides it into the oven, which is already hot. You remember breadmaking! This is how your desire tangles with a desired one. And it's not just a metaphor for a man and a woman making love. Warriors in battle do this too. A great mutual embrace is always happening between the eternal and what dies, between essence and accident. The sport has different rules in every case, but it's basically the same, and remember: The way you make love is the way God will be with you. So these two were lost in their sexual trance. They did not care anymore about feasting or wine. Their eyes were closed like perfectly matching calligraphy lines. The king went looking for the scholar, and when he saw them there coupled, commented, "Well, as it is said, 'A good king must serve his subjects from his own table!"' There is joy, a winelike freedom that dissolves the mind and restores the spirit, and there is manly fortitude like the king's, a reasonableness that accepts the bewildered lostness. But meditate now on steadfastness and clarity, and let those be the wings that lift and soar through the celestial spheres.Contents
Solomon and Sheba are types for the courtship story going on in all of Rumi's poetry. King Solomon (luminous divine wisdom) sends messengers to coax the Queen of Sheba (the bodily soul) to leave her kingdom and come live with him. She coyly sends envoys back with foolishly inappropriate gifts, and when she herself finally arrives, she does so with the one thing she cannot bear to leave, her filigreed throne (the body).
The marriage of spiritual vision with the body finds many metaphors throughout Rumi's art: Jesus riding the lean donkey, the way a river dissolves into the ocean, dawn sunlight filling a ruby, the night sky contained in a person's eyes. The ecstatic astonishment within Rumi's poetry comes from his firsthand wonder at how the ocean comes to court the drop!
I once had a dream where I was supposed to give a lecture on Rumi and D. H. Lawrence, but I couldn't find the lecture hall. The challenge was to connect Lawrence's dark body-knowledge with Rumi's spiritual enlightenment. I ended up in some anteroom eating hors d'oeuvres. The mind knows when it's been assigned work outside its purview.
Rumi's poetry nourishes the part of us that wants a continually unfolding truth, not some confined conclusion. The relationship of soul wisdom and the body, Solomon and Sheba, is a dynamic dance that keeps generating stories.
Queen Sheba loads forty mules with gold bricks as gifts for Solomon. When her envoy and his party reach the wide plain leading to Solomon's palace, they see that the top layer of the entire plain is pure gold. They travel on gold for forty days! What foolishness to take gold to Solomon, when the dirt of his land is gold. You who think to offer your intelligence, reconsider. The mind is less than road dust. The embarrassing commonness they bring only slows them down. They argue. They discuss turning back, but they continue, carrying out the orders of their queen. Solomon laughs when he sees them unloading gold bars. "When have I asked you for a sop for my soup? I don't want gifts from you. I want you to be ready for the gifts I give. You worship a planet that creates gold. Worship instead the one who creates the universe. You worship the sun. The sun is only a cook. Think of a solar eclipse. What if you get attacked at midnight? Who will help you then?" These astronomical matters fade. Another intimacy happens, a sun at midnight, with no east, no night or day. The clearest intelligences faint, seeing the solar system flickering, so tiny in that immense lightness. Drops fall into a vapor, and the vapor explodes into a galaxy. Half a ray strikes a patch of darkness. A new sun appears. One slight, alchemical gesture, and saturnine qualities form inside the planet Saturn. The sensuous eye needs sunlight to see. Use another eye. Vision is luminous. Sight is igneous, and sun-fire light very dark.
Solomon says to the messengers from Sheba, "I send you back as messengers to her. Tell her this refusal of her gift of gold is better than acceptance, because with it she can learn what we value. She loves her throne, but actually it keeps her from passing through the doorway that leads to a true majesty. Tell her, one surrendering bow is sweeter than a hundred empires, is itself a kingdom. Be dizzy and wandering like Ibrahim, who suddenly left everything. In a narrow well things look backward from how they are. Stones and metal objects seem treasure, as broken pottery does to children pretending to buy and sell. Tell her, Joseph sat in such a well, then reached to take the rope that rose to a new understanding. The alchemy of a changing life is the only truth."
Lovers of God, sometimes a door opens, and a human being becomes a way for grace to come through. I see various herbs in the kitchen garden, each with its own bed; garlic, capers, saffron, and basil, each watered differently to help it mature. We keep the delicate ones separate from the turnips, but there's room for all in this unseen world, so vast that the Arabian desert gets lost in it like a single hair in the ocean. Imagine that you are Sheba trying to decide whether to go to Solomon! You're haggling about how much to pay for shoeing a donkey, when you could be seated with one who is always in union with God, who carries a beautiful garden inside himself. You could be moving in a circuit without wing, nourished without eating, sovereign without a throne. No longer subject to fortune, you could be luck itself, if you would rise from sleep, leave the market arguing, and learn that your own essence is your wealth.
When the Queen of Sheba came to Solomon, she left behind her kingdom and her wealth the same way lovers leave their reputations. Her servants meant nothing to her, less than a rotten onion. Her palaces and orchards, so many piles of dung. She heard the inner meaning of LA! No! She came to Solomon with nothing, except her throne! As the writer's pen becomes a friend, as the tool the workman uses day after day becomes deeply familiar, so her filigreed throne was her one attachment. I would explain more about this phenomenon, but it would take too long. It was a large throne and difficult to transport, because it couldn't be taken apart, being as cunningly put together as the human body. Solomon saw that her heart was open to him and that this throne would soon be repulsive to her. "Let her bring it," he said. "It will become a lesson to her like the old shoes and jacket are to Ayaz. She can look at that throne and see how far she's come." In the same way, God keeps the process of generation constantly before us: the smooth skin and the semen and the growing embryo. When you see a pearl on the bottom, you reach through the foam and broken sticks on the surface. When the sun comes up, you forget about locating the constellation of Scorpio. When you see the splendor of union, the attractions of duality seem poignant and lovely, but much less interesting.
Solomon was busy judging others, when it was his personal thoughts that were disrupting the community. His crown slid crooked on his head. He put it straight, but the crown went awry again. Eight times this happened. Finally he began to talk to his headpiece. "Why do you keep tilting over my eyes?" "I have to. When your power loses compassion, I have to show what such a condition looks like." Immediately Solomon recognized the truth. He knelt and asked forgiveness. The crown centered itself on his crown. When something goes wrong, accuse yourself first. Even the wisdom of Plato or Solomon can wobble and go blind. Listen when your crown reminds you of what makes you cold toward others, as you pamper the greedy energy inside.
The place that Solomon made to worship in, called the Far Mosque, is not built of earth and water and stone, but of intention and wisdom and mystical conversation and compassionate action. Every part of it is intelligence and responsive to every other. The carpet bows to the broom. The door knocker and the door swing together like musicians. This heart sanctuary does exist, but it can't be described. Why try! Solomon goes there every morning and gives guidance with words, with musical harmonies, and in actions, which are the deepest teaching. A prince is just a conceit until he does something with generosity. A bird delegation came to Solomon complaining, "Why is it you never criticize the nightingale?" "Because my way," the nightingale explained for Solomon, "is different. Mid-March to mid-June I sing. The other nine months, while you continue chirping, I'm silent."Contents
To a frog that's never left his pond the ocean seems like a gamble. Look what he's giving up: security, mastery of his world, recognition! The ocean frog just shakes his head. "I can't really explain what it's like where I live, but someday I'll take you there."
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If you want what visible reality can give, you're an employee. If you want the unseen world, you're not living your truth. Both wishes are foolish, but you'll be forgiven for forgetting that what you really want is love's confusing joy.
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Gamble everything for love, if you're a true human being. If not, leave this gathering. Half-heartedness doesn't reach into majesty. You set out to find God, but then you keep stopping for long periods at mean-spirited roadhouses.
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In a boat down a fast-running creek, it feels like trees on the bank are rushing by. What seems to be changing around us is rather the speed of our craft leaving this world.
This is the story of the lake and the three big fish that were in it; one of them intelligent, another half-intelligent, and the third, stupid. Some fishermen came to the edge of the lake with their nets. The three fish saw them. The intelligent fish decided at once to leave, to make the long, difficult trip to the ocean. He thought, "I won't consult with these two on this. They will only weaken my resolve, because they love this place so. They call it home. Their ignorance will keep them here." When you're traveling, ask a traveler for advice, not someone whose lameness keeps him in one place. Muhammad says, "Love of one's country is part of the faith." But don't take that literally! Your real "country" is where you're heading, not where you are. Don't misread that hadith. In the ritual ablutions, according to tradition, there's a separate prayer for each body part. When you snuff water up your nose to cleanse it, beg for the scent of the spirit. The proper prayer is, "Lord, wash me. My hand has washed this part of me, but my hand can't wash my spirit. I can wash this skin, but you must wash me." A certain man used to say the wrong prayer for the wrong hole. He'd say the nose-prayer when he splashed his behind. Can the odor of heaven come from our rumps? Don't be humble with fools. Don't take pride into the presence of a master. It's right to love your home place, but first ask, "Where is that, really?" The wise fish saw the men and their nets and said, "I'm leaving." Ali was told a secret doctrine by Muhammad and told not to tell it, so he whispered it down the mouth of a well. Sometimes there's no one to talk to. You must just set out on your own. So the intelligent fish made its whole length a moving footprint and, like a deer the dogs chase, suffered greatly on its way, but finally made it to the edgeless safety of the sea. The half-intelligent fish thought, "My guide has gone. I ought to have gone with him, but I didn't, and now I've lost my chance to escape. I wish I'd gone with him." Don't regret what's happened. If it's in the past, let it go. Don't even remember it! A certain man caught a bird in a trap. The bird says, "Sir, you have eaten many cows and sheep in your life, and you're still hungry. The little bit of meat on my bones won't satisfy you either. If you let me go, I'll give you three pieces of wisdom. One I'll say standing on your hand. One on your roof. And one I'll speak from the limb of that tree." The man was interested. He freed the bird and let it stand on his hand. "Number One: Do not believe an absurdity, no matter who says it." The bird flew and lit on the man's roof. "Number Two: Do not grieve over what is past. It's over. Never regret what has happened." "By the way," the bird continued, "in my body there's a huge pearl weighing as much as ten copper coins. It was meant to be the inheritance of you and your children, but now you've lost it. You could have owned the largest pearl in existence, but evidently it was not meant to be." The man started wailing like a woman in childbirth. The bird: "Didn't I just say, Don't grieve for what's in the past? And also, Don't believe an absurdity? My entire body doesn't weigh as much as ten copper coins. How could I have a pearl that heavy inside me?" The man came to his senses. "All right. Tell me Number Three." "Yes. You've made such good use of the first two!" Don't give advice to someone who's groggy and falling asleep. Don't throw seeds on the sand. Some torn places cannot be patched. Back to the second fish, the half-intelligent one. He mourns the absence of his guide for a while, and then thinks, "What can I do to save myself from these men and their nets? Perhaps if I pretend to be already dead! I'll belly up on the surface and float like weeds float, just giving myself totally to the water. To die before I die, as Muhammad said to." So he did that. He bobbed up and down, helpless, within arm's reach of the fishermen. "Look at this! The best and biggest fish is dead." One of the men lifted him by the tail, spat on him, and threw him up on the ground. He rolled over and over and slid secretly near the water, and then, back in. Meanwhile, the third fish, the dumb one, was agitatedly jumping about, trying to escape with his agility and cleverness. The net, of course, finally closed around him, and as he lay in the terrible frying-pan bed, he thought, "If I get out of this, I'll never live again in the limits of a lake. Next time, the ocean! I'll make the infinite my home."
Inside me a hundred beings are putting their fingers to their lips and saying, "That's enough for now. Shhhhh." Silence is an ocean. Speech is a river. When the ocean is searching for you, don't walk to the language-river. Listen to the ocean, and bring your talky business to an end. Traditional words are just babbling in that presence, and babbling is a substitute for sight. When you sit down beside your beloved, send the chaperones away, the old women who brought you together. When you are mature and with your love, the love letters and matchmakers seem irritating. You might read those letters, but only to teach beginners about love. One who sees grows silent. When you're with one of those, be still and quiet, unless he asks you to talk. Then draw the words out as I do this poem with Husani, the radiance of God. I try to stop talking, but he makes me continue. Husam, if you are in the vision, why do you want -ne to say words? Maybe it's like the poet Abu Nuwas, who said in Arabic, "Pour me some wine, and talk to me about the wine." The cup is at my mouth but my ear interrupts, "I want some." Oh ear, what you get is the heat. You turn red with this wine. But the ear says, "I want more than that!"
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When I remember your love, I weep, and when I hear people talking of you, something in my chest, where nothing much happens now, moves as in sleep.
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All our lives we've looked into each other's faces. That was the case today too. How do we keep our love-secret? We speak from brow to brow and hear with our eyes.
Someone who doesn't know the Tigris River exists brings the caliph who lives near the river a jar of fresh water. The caliph accepts, thanks him, and gives in return a jar filled with gold coins. "Since this man has come through the desert, he should return by water." Taken out by another door, the man steps into a waiting boat and sees the wide freshwater of the Tigris. He bows his head, "What wonderful kindness that he took my gift." Every object and being in the universe is a jar overfilled with wisdom and beauty, a drop of the Tigris that cannot be contained by any skin. Every jarful spills and makes the earth more shining, as though covered in satin. If the man had seen even a tributary of the great river, he wouldn't have brought the innocence of his gift. Those that stay and live by the Tigris grow so ecstatic that they throw rocks at the jugs, and the jugs become perfect! They shatter. The pieces dance, and water... Do you see? Neither jar, nor water, nor stone, nothing. You knock at the door of reality, shake your thought-wings, loosen your shoulders, and open.Contents
There's a strong connection between Jesus and Rumi. I'm told a Christian church in Shiraz (Iran) has a quatrain from Rumi carved in stone over its door:
Where Jesus lives, the great-hearted gather.
We are a door that's never locked.
If you are suffering any kind of pain,
stay near this door. Open it.
A sweet inclusiveness and healing mercy are felt around both. The Friendship of Rumi and Shams has no parallel in the great aloneness of Jesus' life, but the relationship with children and with society's outcasts is very similar.
Rumi showed deep consideration for the least recognized members of his thirteenth-century Muslim small town. He would always stop to bow to children and old women, to bless and be blessed by them.
One day an Armenian butcher, a Christian, was passing. Rumi stopped in the road and bowed seven times to him. Another day he came upon children playing a game. He acknowledged each as he would have an adult. And there was one little boy far away running across a field. "Wait, I'm coming!" Rumi stayed till the boy had come close, bowed, and been bowed to.
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I called through your door, "The mystics are gathering in the street. Come out!" "Leave me alone, I'm sick." "I don't care if you're dead! Jesus is here, and he wants to resurrect somebody!"
Jesus on the lean donkey,
this is an emblem of how
the rational intellect
should control the animal-soul.
Let your spirit be strong like Jesus.
If that part becomes weak,
then the worn-out donkey grows to a dragon.
Be grateful when what seems unkind
comes from a wise person.
Once, a holy man, riding his donkey,
saw a snake crawling into a sleeping man's mouth!
He hurried, but he couldn't prevent it.
He hit the man several blows with his club.
The man woke terrified and ran beneath an apple tree
with many rotten apples on the ground.
"Eat! You miserable wretch! Eat."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"Eat more, you fool."
"I've never seen you before! Who are you?
Do you have some inner quarrel with my soul?"
The wise man kept forcing him to eat, and then he ran him.
For hours he whipped the poor man and made him run.
Finally, at nightfall, full of rotten apples,
fatigued, bleeding, he fell and vomited everything,
the good and the bad, the apples and the snake.
When he saw that ugly snake come out of himself,
he fell on his knees before his assailant.
"Are you Gabriel? Are you God?
I bless the moment you first noticed me. I was dead
and didn't know it. You've given me a new life.
Everything I've said to you was stupid!
I didn't know."
"If I had explained what I was doing,
you might have panicked and died of fear.
Muhammad said,
'If I described the enemy that lives inside men,
even the most courageous would be paralyzed.
No one would go out, or do any work.
No one would pray or fast,
and all power to change would fade
from human beings,'
so I kept quiet while I was beating you,
that like David I might shape iron, so that,
impossibly, I might put feathers back into a bird's wing.
God's silence is necessary, because of humankind's
faint-heartedness. If I had told you about the snake,
you wouldn't have been able to eat, and if
you hadn't eaten, you wouldn't have vomited.
I saw your condition and drove my donkey hard
into the middle of it, saying always under my breath,
'Lord, make it easy on him.' I wasn't permitted
to tell you, and I wasn't permitted to stop
beating you!"
The healed man, still kneeling,
"I have no way to thank you for the quickness
of your wisdom and the strength
of your guidance.
God will thank you."
The son of Mary, Jesus, hurries up a slope as though a wild animal were chasing him. Someone following him asks, "Where are you going? No one is after you." Jesus keeps on, saying nothing, across two more fields. "Are you the one who says words over a dead person, so that he wakes up?" I am. "Did you not make the clay birds fly?" Yes. "Who then could possibly cause you to run like this?" Jesus slows his pace. "I say the Great Name over the deaf and the blind, they are healed. Over a stony mountainside, and it tears its mantle down to the navel. Over non-existence, it comes into existence. But when I speak lovingly for hours, for days, with those who take human warmth and mock it, when I say the Name to them, nothing happens. They remain rock, or turn to sand, where no plants can grow. Other diseases are ways for mercy to enter, but this non-responding breeds violence and coldness toward God. I am fleeing from that. As little by little air steals water, so praise dries up and evaporates with foolish people who refuse to change. Like cold stone you sit on a cynic steals body heat. He doesn't feel the sun." Jesus wasn't running from actual people. He was teaching in a new way.
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Christ is the population of the world, and every object as well. There is no room for hypocrisy. Why use bitter soup for healing when sweet water is everywhere?
Lovers think they're looking for each other, but there's only one search: wandering this world is wandering that, both inside one transparent sky. In here there is no dogma and no heresy. The miracle of Jesus is himself, not what he said or did about the future. Forget the future. I'd worship someone who could do that. On the way, you may want to look back, or not, but if you can say There's nothing ahead, there will be nothing there. Stretch your arms and take hold the cloth of your clothes with both hands. The cure for pain is in the pain. Good and bad are mixed. If you don't have both, you don't belong with us. When one of us gets lost, is not here, he must be inside us. There's no place like that anywhere in the world.Contents
Here are more sections from Rumi's Mathnawi, the six books of "spiritual couplets" he dictated to his scribe, Husam Chelebi, between 1260 and 1273.
Rumi and Husam would walk together around Konya or through the vineyards of Meram nearby, letting the subjects flow into poetry. Passages from the Qur'an, folk tales, jokes, all intrusions were allowed swimming room in this ocean of sublime jazz that perhaps has no parallel in world literature.
The Mathnawi is a house of mirrors. Relationship is everywhere, and everywhere we are shown ourselves. The other reveals us. Rumi's stories are full of reflections, comic janitors and stealthy maids, judges and impudent lovers who disclose our hidings and hypocrisies. The whole always throws the parts into relationship, polishing the mirrors.
What we see happening in the external drama we can be sure is part of ourselves. It is said that a cow walked across the entire city of Baghdad and saw only some hay that had fallen off a wagon. Likewise, some people travel all around the world and report back that everyone tried to cheat them.
No more muffled drums! Uncover the drumheads! Plant your flag in an open field! No more timid peeking around. Either you see the beloved, or you lose your head! If your throat's not ready for that wine, cut it! If your eyes don't want the fullness of union, let them turn white with disease. Either this deep desire of mine will be found on this journey, or when I get back home! It may be that the satisfaction I need depends on my going away, so that when I've gone and come back, I'll find it at home. I will search for the Friend with all my passion and all my energy, until I learn that I don't need to search. The real truth of existence is sealed, until after many twists and turns of the road. As in the algebraical method of "the two errors," the correct answer comes only after two substitutions, after two mistakes. Then the seeker says, "If I had known the real way it was, I would have stopped all the looking around." But that knowing depends on the time spent looking! Just as the sheikh's debt could not be paid until the boy's weeping, the story we told in Book II. You fear losing a certain eminent position. You hope to gain something from that, but it comes from elsewhere. Existence does this switching trick, giving you hope from one source, then satisfaction from another. It keeps you bewildered and wondering, and lets your trust in the unseen grow. You think to make your living from tailoring, but then somehow money comes in through goldsmithing, which had never entered your mind. I don't know whether the union I want will come through my effort, or my giving up effort, or from something completely separate from anything I do or don't do. I wait and fidget and flop about as a decapitated chicken does, knowing that the vital spirit has to escape this body eventually, somehow! This desire will find an opening. There was once a man who inherited a lot of money and land. But he squandered it all too quickly. Those who inherit wealth don't know what work it took to get it. In the same way, we don't know the value of our souls, which were given to us for nothing! So the man was left alone without provisions, as an owl in the desert. The Prophet has said that a true seeker must be completely empty like a lute to make the sweet music of Lord, Lord. When the emptiness starts to get filled with something, the one who plays the lute puts it down and picks up another. There is nothing more subtle and delightful than to make that music. Stay empty and held between those fingers, where where gets drunk with nowhere. This man was empty, and the tears came. His habitual stubbornness dissolved. This is the way with many seekers. They moan in prayer, and the perfumed smoke of that floats into heaven, and the angels say, "Answer this prayer. This worshiper has only you and nothing else to depend on. Why do you go first to the prayers of those less devoted?" God says, "By deferring my generosity I am helping him. His need dragged him by the hair into my presence. If I satisfy that, he'll go back to being absorbed in some idle amusement. Listen how passionate he is! That torn-open cry is the way he should live." Nightingales are put in cages because their songs give pleasure. Whoever heard of keeping a crow? When two people, one decrepit and the other young and handsome, come into a bakery where the baker is an admirer of young men, and both of them ask for bread, the baker will immediately give what he has on hand to the old man. But to the other he will say, "Sit down and wait awhile. There's fresh bread baking in the house. Almost ready!" And when the hot bread is brought, the baker will say, "Don't leave. The halvah is coming!" So he finds ways of detaining the young man with, "Ah, there's something important I want to tell you about. Stay. I'll be back in a moment. Something very important!" This is how it is when true devotees suffer disappointment in the good they want to do, or the bad they want to avoid. So this man with nothing, who had inherited everything and squandered it, kept weeping, Lord, Lord! Finally in a dream he heard a voice, "Your wealth is in Cairo. Go there to such and such a spot and dig, and you'll find what you need." So he left on the long journey, and when he saw the towers of Cairo, he felt his back grow warm with new courage. But Cairo is a large city, and before he could find the spot, he had to wander about. He had no money, of course, so he begged among the townspeople, but he felt ashamed doing that. He decided, "I will go out at night and call like the night-mendicants that people throw coins into the street for." Shame and dignity and hunger were pushing him forward and backward and sideways! Suddenly, he was seized by the night patrol. It so happened that many had been robbed recently in Cairo at night, and the caliph had told the police to assume that anyone out roaming after dark was a thief. It's best not to let offenders go unpunished. Then they poison the whole body of society. Cut off the snakebitten finger! Don't be sympathetic with thieves. Consider instead the public suffering. In those days robbers were expert, and numerous! So the night patrol grabbed the man. "Wait! I can explain!" "Tell me." "I am not a criminal. I am new to Cairo. I live in Baghdad." He told the story of his dream and the buried treasure, and he was so believable in the telling that the night patrolman began to cry. Always, the fragrance of truth has that effect. Passion can restore healing power, and prune the weary boughs to new life. The energy of passion is everything! There are fake satisfactions that simulate passion. They taste cold and delicious, but they just distract you and prevent you from the search. They say, "I will relieve your passion. Take me. Take me!" Run from false remedies that dilute your energy. Keep it rich and musky. The night patrol said, "I know you're not a thief. You're a good man, but you're kind of a fool. I've had that dream before. I was told, in my dream, that there was a treasure for me in Baghdad, buried in a certain quarter of the city on such and such a street." The name of the street that he said was where this man lived! "And the dream voice told me, 'It's in So-and-so's house. Go there and get it!"' Without knowing, he had described the exact house, and mentioned this man's name! "But I didn't do what the dream said to do, and look at you, who did, wandering the world, fatigued, and begging in the streets!" So it came quietly to the seeker, though he didn't say it out loud, "What I'm longing for lived in my house in Baghdad!" He filled with joy. He breathed continuous praise. Finally he said, "The water of life is here. I'm drinking it. But I had to come this long way to know it!"
A lover was telling his beloved how much he loved her, how faithful he had been, how self-sacrificing, getting up at dawn every morning, fasting, giving up wealth and strength and fame, all for her. There was a fire in him. He didn't know where it came from, but it made him weep and melt like a candle. "You've done well," she said, "but listen to me. All this is the decor of love, the branches and leaves and blossoms. You must live at the root to be a true lover.' "Where is that! Tell me!" "You've done the outward acts, but you haven't died. You must die." When he heard that, he lay back on the ground laughing, and died. He opened like a rose that drops to the ground and died laughing. That laughter was his freedom, and his gift to the eternal. As moonlight shines back at the sun, he heard the call to come home, and went. When light returns to its source, it takes nothing of what it has illuminated. It may have shone on a garbage dump, or a garden, or in the center of a human eye. No matter. It goes, and when it does, the open plain becomes passionately desolate, wanting it back.
They were outdoors in some sort of fake spiritual state, the hypocrite and his friend, the mayor. It was midnight, and raining. A wolf appeared on the edge of the hill. The mayor let fly an arrow that felled the wolf, who moaned and farted and died. The hypocrite yelled, "You've killed my donkey. I know my donkey's farts as well as I know water from wine." "Not so. I shot a wolf. Go and see. It's too dark to tell anything from here." "Among twenty farts from twenty animals, I would know the wind from my young donkey. Some things I know perfectly." "You impostor! In the rain, at midnight, at fifty yards, you can distinguish one fart from another! You didn't even recognize me today, and we've known each other for ten years! You're just pretending with this God-drunkenness too, so I guess you'll be excused for other forgetfulnesses, as a child is, or someone truly dissolved in that joy. You're not. You're too proud of your 'dervishhood,' and your cries of 'selfless surrender.' 'O, both worlds are here! I can't tell which is which! My donkey's farts prove the sensitivity of my state!"' This is the way hypocrisy gets exposed. Anyone who claims, "I am the keeper of the doorway," will be tested by the adepts, as when some fellow claims to be a tailor, but when the king throws down a piece of satin and says, "Make me a vest," he has no idea what to do. The wine God loves is human honesty. That hypocrite had been drinking buttermilk. He was saying, "Leave me alone in my bewilderment. I don't know a hatchet from a key. I am Junnaiyd. I am Bestami!" Spiritual sloth and spiritual greed will not stay hidden. If you pretend to be Hallai and with that fake burning set fire to your friends, don't think that you're a lover. You're crazy and numb. You're drinking our blood, and you have no experience of the nearness.
The King of Tirmid has urgent business in Samarcand. He needs a courier to go there and return in five days. He offers many rewards to anyone who will make the journey--horses, servants, gold, and the robes of honor. Dalcjak, the court clown, is out in the country when he hears of this. He quickly mounts a horse and rides toward town. He rides furiously. Two horses drop dead of exhaustion under his whip. He arrives covered with dust at some ungodly hour, demanding an audience with the king. A panic sweeps the city. What calamity could be imminent that Dalqak, the buffoon, should be so distraught? Everyone gathers at the palace. "An evil omen is upon us!" "Something has certainly been spilled on the rug this time!" The king himself is worried. "What is it, Dalqak?" Whenever anyone asks Dalqak for particulars about anything, he first puts his finger to his lips, Shhhhh... Everyone gets very quiet. Dalqak makes another gesture as though to say he needs more time to catch his breath. Another long wait. No one has ever seen Dalqak like this. Usually, he's a constant stream of new jokes. Usually, the king would be laughing so hard he'd fall on the floor holding his stomach. This quietness is very odd and foreboding. Everyone's worst fears come up. "The tyrant from Khwarism is coming to kill us!" "Dalqak, say what it is!" "I was far from the court when I heard that you needed a courier, someone who could go to Samarcand and come back in five days." "Yes!" "I hurried here to tell you that I will not be able to do it." "What!" "I don't have the stamina or the agility. Don't expect me to be the one." "This is what you made such a commotion about, that you won't do it?" Dalqak is like those who pretend to be on a brave spiritual path. The bridegroom's house is in an uproar of preparation, always making ready to receive the bride, but the girl's family knows nothing. Any message yet? "No.,," Any sign of activity? "No.," Letters have been written and sent, but have any of them reached the Friend? Has your inner lover read them?
There once was a sneering wife who ate all her husband brought home and lied about it. One day it was some lamb for a guest who was to come. He had worked two hundred days in order to buy that meat. When he was away, his wife cooked a kabob and ate it all, with wine. The husband returns with the guest. "The cat has eaten the meat," she says. "Buy more, if you have any money left!" He asks a servant to bring the scales, and the cat. The cat weighs three pounds. "The meat was three pounds, one ounce. If this is the cat, where is the meat? If this is the meat, where is the cat? Start looking for one or the other!" If you have a body, where is the spirit? If you're spirit, what is the body? This is not our problem to worry about. Both are both. Corn is corn grain and cornstalk. The divine butcher cuts us a piece from the thigh, and a piece from the neck. Invisible, visible, the world does not work without both. If you throw dust at someone's head, nothing will happen. If you throw water, nothing. But combine them into a lump. That marriage of water and dirt cracks open the head, and afterward there are other marriages.
Don't look at me. Fall into the safety of God. I'm already drowned. Do I have a beard? I can't remember. Rescue this man from his mustache, curling so proudly, while inside he tears his hair. Married to God, married to God, but pretending not! We see distinctly what this imposture becomes in a hundred years. A sheikh looks into a chunk of iron like it's a mirror. What this bushy-bearded man does not discover in his house a boy could find so easily. Dive into the ocean. You're caught in your own pretentious beard like something you didn't eat. You're not garbage! Pearls want to be like you. You should be with them where waves and fish and pearls and seaweed and wind are all one. No linking, no hierarchy, no distinctions, no perplexed wondering, no speech. Beyond describing. Either stay here and talk or go there and be silent. Or do both, by turns. With those who see double, talk double-talk. Make noise, beat a drum, think of metaphors! With friends, say only mystery. Near roses, sing. With deceptive people, cover the jar, and shield it. But be calm with those in duality. Speak sweetly and reasonably. Patience polishes and purifies. Here's the story of a man looking for Sheikh Kharraqani. A certain dervish goes out from Talaqan, over the mountains and through a long valley. The injuries and troubles he suffered deserve mention, but I'll make it short. The young man arrives at the sheikh's house and knocks. The sheikh's wife sticks her head out, "What do you want?" "I come with the intention of seeing the sheikh." "Oho," laughs the wife, "lock at His Reverence! Was there nothing to do where you live that you came on such an idle sight-seeing expedition? Do you hate your hometown? Or maybe Satan led you here by the nose?" I won't tell you all she said. "Still, I would like to see the sheikh." "Better you should turn around and go home. Hundreds of your kind have come like Israelites to rub their hands on this arrogant gold calf, parasite, licker-of-platters-on-the-floor, heavy-slumbering good-for-nothing. They say, O, this is ecstasy, O. They forget any real religious ceremony and ritual prayers." The young man could stand it no more. "What is this? I've been ambushed by a night patrol in full daylight! Your blitherings try to keep me from the presence of a holy man, but I know what light led me here, the same that turned the golden calf into words in a sacred story. A saint is a theater where the qualities of God can be seen. Don't try to keep me out. Puff on this candle, and your face will get burned! Rather try blowing out the sun, or fitting a muzzle on the sea! Old bats like you dream that their cave-dark is everywhere, but it's not. My determination to be in that presence is quick and constant. You won't stop or slow me. A revealer of mystery and that which is revealed are the same. Seed, sowing, growing, harvest, one presence. The husk, old hag of a nagging world, should bow to that. Hallai said, I am God, and lived it out. What happens when the I disappears? What's left after not? Whoever scoffs at these questions and the experiences they point to, his arrogant spit comes back in his face. There is no spitting on the way we're on. Rain itself turns to spit on those who mock and casually show disrespect to saints." With that he left the doorway and walked about asking in the town. Finally someone said, "The qutb is in the forest collecting wood." The young dervish ran toward the forest but with a doubt, "Why should such a sheikh have such a woman for a wife, such an opposite, such a neanderthal! God forgive my impugning. Who am I to judge?" But the question remained. How could a teacher lie with that woman! Can a guide agree with a thief? Suddenly Sheikh Kharraqani appears, riding a lion, firewood stacked behind him. His whip, a live serpent. Every sheikh rides a fierce lion, whether you see it or not. Know this with your other eyes: There are thousands of lions under your teacher's thighs and all of them stacked with wood! Kharraqani knew the problem and immediately began to answer, "Well, it's not out of desire that I put up with her! Don't think that. It's not her perfume or her bright-colored clothes. Enduring her public disdain has made me strong and patient. She is my practice. Nothing can be clear without a polar opposite present. Two banners, one black, one white, and between them something gets settled. Between Pharaoh and Moses, the Red Sea. You consider issues, but not deeply enough. Your spring is frozen. Faith is a flowing. Don't try to forge cold iron. Study David, the ironsmith, and dancer, and musician. Move into the sun. You're wrapped in fantasy and inner mumbling. When spirit enters, a man begins to wander freely, escaped and overrunning through the garden plants, spontaneous and soaking in." Now a miracle story...
Listen to this, and hear the irystery inside: A snake-catcher went into the mountains to find a snake. He wanted a friendly pet, and one that would amaze audiences, but he was looking for a reptile, something that has no knowledge of friendship. It was winter. In the deep snow he saw a frighteningly huge dead snake. He was afraid to touch it, but he did. In fact, he dragged the thing into Baghdad, hoping people would pay to see it. This is how foolish we've become! A human being is a mountain range! Snakes are fascinated by us! Yet we sell ourselves to look at a dead snake. We are like beautiful satin used to patch burlap. "Come see the dragon I killed, and hear the adventures!" That's what he announced, and a large crowd came, but the dragon was not dead, just dormant! He set up his show at a crossroads. The ring of gawking people got thicker, everybody on tiptoe, men and women, noble and peasant, all packed together unconscious of their differences. It was like the Resurrection! He began to unwind the thick ropes and remove the cloth coverings he'd wrapped it so well in. Some little movement. The hot Iraqi sun had woken the terrible life. The people nearest started screaming. Panic! The dragon tore easily and hungrily loose, killing many instantly. The snake-catcher stood there, frozen. "What have I brought out of the mountains?" The snake braced against a post and crushed the man and consumed him. The snake is your animal-soul. When you bring it into the hot air of your wanting-energy, warmed by that and by the prospect of power and wealth, it does massive damage. Leave it in the snow mountains. Don't expect to oppose it with quietness and sweetness and wishing. The nafs don't respond to those, and they can't be killed. It takes a Moses to deal with such a beast, to lead it back, and make it lie down in the snow. But there was no Moses then. Hundreds of thousands died.
When Abu Bakr met Muhammad, he said, "This is not a face that lies.." Abu Bakr was one whose bowl has fallen from the roof. There's no hiding the fragrance that comes from an ecstatic. A polished mirror cannot help reflecting. Muhammad once was talking to a crowd of chieftains, princes with great influence, when a poor blind man interrupted him. Muhammad frowned and said to the man, "Let me attend to these visitors. This is a rare chance, whereas you are already my friend. We'll have ample time." Then someone nearby said, "That blind man may be worth a hundred kings. Remember the proverb, 'Human beings are mines.'" World-power means nothing. Only the unsayable, jeweled inner life matters. Muhammad replied, "Do not think that I'm concerned with being acknowledged by these authorities. If a beetle moves toward rosewater, it proves that the solution is diluted. Beetles love dung, not rose essence. If a coin is eager to be tested by the touchstone, that coin itself may be a touchstone. A thief loves the night. I am day. I reveal essences. A calf thinks God is a cow. A donkey's theology changes when someone new pets it and gives what it wants. I am not a cow, or thistles for camels to browse on. People who insult me are only polishing the mirror."
Learn from Ali how to fight without your ego participating. God's Lion did nothing that didn't originate from his deep center. Once in battle he got the best of a certain knight and quickly drew his sword. The man, helpless on the ground, spat in Ali's face. Ali dropped his sword, relaxed, and helped the man to his feet. "Why have you spared me? How has lightning contracted back into its cloud? Speak, my prince, so that my soul can begin to stir in me like an embryo." Ali was quiet and then finally answered, "I am God's Lion, not the lion of passion. The sun is my lord. I have no longing except for the One. When a wind of personal reaction comes, I do not go along with it. There are many winds full of anger, and lust and greed. They move the rubbish around, but the solid mountain of our true nature stays where it's always been. There's nothing now except the divine qualities. Come through the opening into me. Your impudence was better than any reverence, because in this moment I am you and you are me. I give you this opened heart as God gives gifts: the poison of your spit has become the honey of friendship."Contents
Like other art works born of a spiritual impulse, Rumi's Mathnawi demolishes its form and overreaches its boundaries. Yet two extended stories, near the beginning of Book I and near the end of Book VI, give a kind of rounded effect to the whole. They are love stories.
In both, the narrow romantic love changes to ecstatic love of the beloved, and in both there is a disturbing act of violence (the poisoning of the goldsmith and the killing of the second brother) that is crucial to the Khidresque mystery. The Mathnawi itself is a love story that obliterates lovers. "Don't look for me in a human shape."
These are two stories of that difficult truth: How wanting the Chinese princess leads into the mystery of Die before you die. How a picture, an appearance, starts us, the king's three sons, out on a path to the formless marriage. It's overstating the point to say that the stories "frame" the Mathnawi. Where the refrain "This never ends" keeps revolving by, no model of linear structure is appropriate.
Do you know why your soul-mirror does not reflect as clearly as it might? Because rust has begun to cover it. It needs to be cleaned. Here's a story about the inner state that's meant by soul-mirror. In the old days there was a king who was powerful in both his kingdoms, the visible as well as the spiritual. One day as he was riding on the hunt, he saw a girl and was greatly taken with her beauty. As was the custom, he paid her family handsomely and asked that she come to be a servant at the palace. fie was in love with her. The feelings trembled and flapped in his chest like a bird newly put in a cage. But as soon as she arrived, she fell ill. The king was like the man who had a donkey, but no saddle for the pack. Then he bought a saddle, and wolves killed the donkey. He had a waterjar, but no water. Then he found water, but the pitcher fell and broke. He brought his doctors together. "You have both our lives in your hands. Her life is my life. Whoever heals her will receive the finest treasure I have, the coral inlaid with pearls, anything!" "We'll do what we can. Each of us is the healing-savior of our regions. Surely we can find a cure." They neglected, in the pride of their accomplishments, to say If God wills. I don't mean that just the saying of the phrase would have helped. There was a coldness and a closed quality beneath the omission. There are many who don't say Inshallah, and yet their whole soul resonates with it all the time! So the doctors began, and no matter what they tried, the girl got more pale and thin. The effects of their medicines were the opposite of what they expected. Oxymel produced bile. Almond oil caused dryness. Myrobalen, instead of loosening the bowels, constricted them. Water seemed to feed the fever. The king saw that his doctors were helpless. He ran barefooted to the mosque. He knelt on the prayer rug and soaked the point of it with his tears. He dissolved into an annihilated state, and as he came out of that, he spoke this prayer: "You know what's hidden here. I don't know what to do. You have said, 'Even though I know all secrets, still declare it outwardly with an action."' He cried out loud for help, and the ocean of grace surged over him. He slept in the midst of his weeping on the prayer rug. In his dream an old man appeared. "Good king, I have news. Tomorrow a stranger will come. I have sent him. He is a physician you can trust. Listen to him." As dawn came, the king was sitting up in the belvedere on his roof. He saw someone coming, a person like the dawn. He ran to meet this guest. Like two swimmers who love the water, their souls knit together without being sewn, no seam. The king said, "You are my beloved, not the girl! But actions spring from actions in this reality. What should I do?" We should always ask for discipline. One who has no self-control cannot receive grace. And it's not just himself he hurts. Undisciplined people set fire to the landscape! A table of food was once coming down from the sky to feed Moses and his people, when suddenly voices from the crowd called out, "Where's the garlic?" and "We want lentils!" At once the bread and the dishes of grace-food disappeared. Everyone had to keep digging with mattocks and cutting with long scythes. Then Jesus interceded and sent more trays of food. But again some insolent people showed no respect. They grabbed like it wouldn't be enough, even though Jesus kept telling them, "This food will last. It will always be here." To be suspicious and greedy when majesty arrives is the worst arrogance. The gates closed. Withhold your giving, and no rainclouds will form. When sex goes on between everybody all the time, epidemics spread in every direction. When you feel groomed over, it's your failure to praise. Irreverence and no discipline rob your soul of light. The king opened his arms and held the saintly doctor to him. He kissed his hand and his forehead and asked how his journey had been. Many dear concerns for this one who had been announced in his dream. He led him to the head table. "At last, I have found what patience can bring. This one whose face answers any question, who simply by looking can loosen the knot of intellectual discussion. You translate what is inside us. If you were to vanish, this vast meeting room would shrink to a closet. Protect us." They talked and ate a spirit meal. Then the king took the doctor's hand and led him to where the girl lay, telling him the story of her illness. The doctor felt her pulse and observed her coloring and her urine. "Your healers have not helped. They've made her worse. They don't know the inner states." The secret of her pain opened to him, but he didn't tell the king what it was. It was love, of course. The ailments of love are different from any other. Love is the astrolabe that sights into the mysteries of God. Earth-love, spirit-love, any love looks into that yonder, and whatever I try to say explaining love is embarrassing! Some commentary clarifies, but with love silence is clearer. A pen went scribbling along, but when it tried to write love, it broke. If you want to expound on love, take your intellect out and let it lie down in the mud. It's no help. You want proof that the sun exists, so you stay up all night talking about it. Finally you sleep as the sun comes up. Look at it! Nothing is so strange in this entire world as the sun. The sun of the soul is even more so. It has no yesterday! The physical sun is unique, but it's possible to imagine something like it. The spiritual sun has nothing comparable, inner or outer. Imagination cannot contain it. Word of that sun, Shams, came, and everything hid. Now Husam touches my arm. He wants me to say more about Shams. Not now, Husam. I don't know how to make words make sense, or praise. In the Friend-place nothing true can be said. Let me just be here. But Husam begs, "Feed me! Hurry! Time is a sharp downstroke. A sufi is supposed to be a child of the moment. Aren't you a sufi? Don't say tomorrow or later!" And I reply, "It's better that the way of the Friend be concealed in a story. Let the mystery come through what people say around the lovers, not from what lovers say to each other." "No! I want this as naked and true as it can be. I don't wear a shirt when I lie down with my beloved!" "O Husam. If the Friend came to you completely naked, your chest could not stand it. You wouldn't be here in your body any longer. Ask for what you want, but within some limits. A little stick can't hold up a mountain. If that inner sun by which existence exists came even a little closer, everything would be scorched. Don't ask for that. Say no more for now about Shamsi Tabriz." This has no end. Go back to the beginning, the end of the story of the king and the lovesick maiden and the holy doctor, who said, "Leave me alone with the girl." It was done, and quietly he began. "Where are you from? Who are your relatives there? Who else are you close to in that region?" On and on he gently asked about her life. When someone steps barefooted on a thorn, he immediately puts his foot on his knee and searches with a needle, and when he can't locate the tip, he moistens around the place with moisture from his lips. A splinter is often difficult to get out. How much more difficult a thorn in the heart! If everyone could find that thorn in themselves, things would be much more peaceful here! Someone puts a clump of burrs under a donkey's tail. The donkey doesn't know what's wrong. He just starts jumping and bucking around. An intelligent, thorn-removing doctor must come and investigate. So the divine physician asked about her friends and held her hand to feel the pulse. She told many stories of her home, mentioning many names, and he would say the names again after her to test the pulse reaction. Finally he asked, "When you visit other towns, where are you most likely to go?" She said one town, then another, where she bought bread and where salt, describing the houses, until he happened to say the word Samarcand! The dear city sweet as candy. She blushed. Her breath caught. Oh she loves a goldsmith in Samarcand! She misses him so. "Where exactly does he live?" "At the head of the bridge on Ghatafar Street." "Now I can heal you. Don't be afraid. I will do to you what rain does to a meadow. But don't tell this to anyone, certainly not the king. When the love center in your chest becomes the grave for such a secret, then what you want will be quickly yours." Seeds must hide in the ground to become whatever is in them. The girl felt better. She trusted him. The doctor went to the king and told him part of the story. "On some pretext we must bring here from Samarcand a certain goldsmith. Lure him with the prospect of wealth and honors." The king's messengers went with robes and coins and easily persuaded the man to leave his family and his town. He rode an Arabian horse into the presence of the king and the doctor, who said, "Marry the girl to this man, and she will be cured." It was done, and for six months those two loved and made love and totally satisfied themselves with each other. The girl was restored to perfect health. Then the physician gave the goldsmith a potion, so that he began to sicken. His handsomeness faded, and his strength dwindled. Little by little he became sunken-cheeked and jaundiced and ugly, and the girl stopped loving him. Any love based on physical beauty is not love. "This world is a mountain. What we do is a shout. The echo comes back to us." The goldsmith said that and died. Choose to love the one who does not die. Don't say, "But how can we do that?" The generous one is not hard to find. But what about the doctor's poisoning the poor goldsmith! It was not done for the king's sake. The reason is a mystery like Khidr's cutting the boy's throat. Everything the doctor did was out of God's will. Khidr sunk the boat, yet it was right to do. When someone is killed by a doctor like this one, it's a blessing, even though it might not seem so. A child cries at its first haircut, but not the mother. Such a doctor is part of a larger generosity. He takes away one and gives back a hundred. Don't judge his actions do. You are not living what you would by completely within truth as he is.
There was a king who had three equally accomplished sons. Each was generous and wise, and fiercely decisive when the need arose. They stood like three strongly burning candles before their father, ready to set out on a journey to distant parts of his kingdom to see if they were being administered fairly and well. Each kissed the king's hand as a sign of farewell and obedience. "Go wherever you are drawn to go," said the king, "and dance on your way. You are protected. I only warn you not to enter one particular castle, the one called The Fortress That Takes Away Clarity. That castle has a gallery of beautiful pictures which causes great difficulty for the royal family. It's like the chamber Zuleikha decorated to trap Joseph, where her picture was everywhere. He could not avoid looking at her. Stay away from that one place." Of course, as it happens, the three princes were obsessed with seeing that castle, and in spite of their father's admonition they went into it. It had five gates facing the land and five facing the ocean, as the five external senses take in the color and perfume of phenomena and the five inner senses open onto the mystery. The thousands of pictures there made the princes restless. They wandered the hallways drunkenly, until they came, all three at the same time, to stand before a particular portrait, a woman's face. They fell hopelessly in love. "This is what our father warned us of. We thought we were strong enough to resist anything, as one who has phthisis thinks he's well enough to go on, but we're not! Who is this?" A wise sheikh revealed to them, "She is the Chinese princess, the hidden one. The Chinese king has concealed her as the spirit is wrapped in an embryo. No one may come into her presence. Birds are not even allowed to fly over her roof. No one can figure a way in. She can't be won by contriving. Give up on that!" The princes put their heads together anyway, comrades in one sighing passion. The oldest said, "We've always been bold when we gave counsel to others, but look at us! We used to say, Patienceis the key, but the rules we made for others are no help now. We advised, Laugh! Why are we so quiet? Where is our strength?" In despair they set out for China, not with any hope for a union with the princess, but just to be closer to her. They left everything and went toward the hidden beloved. They lived disguised in the capital, trying to devise some way into the palace. Finally the eldest, "I can't wait like this. I don't want to live if I have to live separated from the beloved. This is the one I've been beating the drum for my entire life. What does a duck care about a shipwreck? Just the duck's feet in ocean water is ship enough. My soul and my body are married to this boasting. I am dreaming but I'm not asleep. I brag but I do not lie. I'm a candle. Pass the knife through my neck a hundred times, I'll burn just as brightly. The haystack of my existence has caught on both sides. Let it burn all night down to nothing. On the road the moon gives all the light I need. I'm going to confront the king with my desire." His brothers tried to persuade him not to, but they couldn't. He sprang up and came staggering into the presence of the Chinese king, who knew what was happening, though he kept silent. That king was inside the three brothers, but he pretended to be unfamiliar with them. The fire under the kettle is the appearance. The boiling water is the reality. The beloved is in your veins though he or she may seem to have a form outside you. The prince knelt and kissed the king's feet, and stayed there, bowed down. "This young man will have everything he seeks, and twenty times that which he left behind. He gambled and flung off his robe in ecstasy. Such love is worth a thousand robes. This one is an ambassador from that love, and he is doing his work well.'' The prince heard this and could not speak, but his soul spoke constantly with that soul. The prince thought, "This is reality, this waking, this melting away." He stayed bowed down with the king a long time, cooking. "Execution is one thing, but I am being executed again and again every moment! Poor in wealth, but rich in lives to sacrifice. No one can play the game of love with just one head!" This joyful waiting consumed the prince. The form of the beloved left his mind and he found union. "The clothes of the body were sweet silk, but this nakedness is sweeter." This subject can go no further. What comes next must stay hidden. One rides to the ocean on horseback, but after that the wooden horse of mystical silence must carry you. When that boat sinks, you are the fish, neither silent nor speaking, a marvel with no name. So the oldest brother died, and the middle brother came to the funeral. "What's this? A fish from the same sea!" mused the king. The chamberlain called out, "A son of the same father, the brother next in age to the deceased." The king, "Yes, a keepsake from that one to me." So the sublime kindnesses descended again, and the courtyard seemed split apart like a pomegranate laughing, with all the forms of the universe opening their tent flaps, new creations every second. He had read about such revelations in books. Now it was his. He kept saying, "Is there more? Is there more?" Fed from the king's nature, he felt a satisfaction he'd never felt before, and then there came a pride. "Am I not also a king, the son of a king? Why is this one controlling me? I should open my own shop, independent of him." The king thought, "I give you pure light, and you throw dirt in my face!" The middle brother suddenly realized what he had inwardly done, but it was too late. His magnificence was stripped away. No longer a garden peacock, he flew like a lonely owl in the wilderness, like Adam plowing an ox far from Eden. He came to himself and asked forgiveness, and with his repentance he combined something else, the deep pain that comes from losing the union. This story must be shortened. After a year when the king came out of his own self-effacement, he found one arrow missing from his quiver and the middle brother dead, shot through the throat. The king wept, both slayer and chief mourner. Yet all was well. The middle brother too had gone to the beloved through the killing eye that blasted his conceit. It was the third brother, who had been ill up until now, who received the hand of the princess. He lived the marriage of form and spirit, and did absolutely nothing to deserve it.Contents
In China they tell of three laughing Taoist masters, who taught by going into town and standing in the marketplace and laughing. One of them died. People curious as to how the remaining two would act gathered at the funeral pyre.
The other two masters had been given instructions not to prepare the body in any way, not even to change the clothes the dead man was wearing. He had crammed his pockets full of firecrackers. The teaching began again.
Rumi's poems are like firecrackers on a funeral pyre. They won't allow much public posturing, and they point us away from misery.
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I used to be shy. You made me sing. I used to refuse things at table. Now I shout for more wine. In somber dignity, I used to sit on my mat and pray. Now children run through and make faces at me.
There was a long drought. Crops dried up. The vineyard leaves turned black. People were gasping and dying like fish thrown up on shore and left there. But one man was always laughing and smiling. A group came and asked, "Have you no compassion for this suffering?" He answered, "To your eyes this is a drought. To me, it is a form of God's joy. Everywhere in this desert I see green corn growing waist high, a sea-wilderness of young ears greener than leeks. I reach to touch them. How could I not? You and your friends are like Pharaoh drowning in the Red Sea of your body's blood. Become friends with Moses, and see this other riverwater." When you think your father is guilty of an injustice, his face looks cruel. Joseph, to his envious brothers, seemed dangerous. When you make peace with your father, he will look peaceful and friendly. The whole world is a form for truth. When someone does not feel grateful to that, the forms appear to be as he feels. They mirror his anger, his greed, and his fear. Make peace with the universe. Take joy in it. It will turn to gold. Resurrection will be now. Every moment, a new beauty. And never any boredom! Instead this abundant, pouring noise of many springs in your ears. The tree limbs will move like people dancing, who suddenly know what the mystical life is. The leaves snap their fingers like they're hearing music. They are! A sliver of a mirror shines out from under a felt covering. Think how it will be when the whole thing is opera to the air and the sunlight! There are some mysteries that I'm not telling you. There's so much doubt everywhere, so many opinions that say, "What you announce may be true in the future, but not now." But this form of universal truth that I see says, This is not a prediction. This is here, in this instant, cash in the hand! This reminds me of the sons of Uzayr, who were out on the road looking for their father. They had grown old, and their father had miraculously grown young! They met him and asked, "Pardon us, sir, but have you seen Uzayr? We heard that he's supposed to be coming along this road today." "Yes," said Uzayr, "he's right behind me." One of the sons replied, "That's good news!" The other fell on the ground. He had recognized his father "What do you mean news! We're already inside the sweetness of his presence." To your minds there is such a thing as news, whereas to the inner knowing, it's all in the middle of its happening. To doubters, this is a pain. To believers, it's gospel. To the lover and the visionary, it's life as it's being lived! The rules of faithfulness are just the door and the doorkeeper. They keep the presence from being interrupted. Being unfaithful is like the outside of a fruit peeling. It's dry and bitter because it's facing away from the center. Being faithful is like the inside of the peeling, wet and sweet. But the place for peelings is the fire. The real inside is beyond "sweet" and "bitter." It's the source of deliciousness. This can't be said. I'm drowning in it! Turn back! And let me cleave a road through water like Moses. This much I will say, and leave the rest hidden: Your intellect is in fragments, like bits of gold scattered over many matters. You must scrape them together, so the royal stamp can be pressed into you. Cohere, and you'll be as lovely as Samarcand with its central market, or Damascus. Grain by grain, collect the parts. You'll be more magnificent than a flat coin. You'll be a cup with carvings of the king around the outside. The Friend will become bread and springwater for you, a lamp and a helper, your favorite dessert and a glass of wine. Union with that one is grace. Gather the pieces, so I can show you what is. That's what talking is for, to help us to be One. Manyness is having sixty different emotions. Unity is peace, and silence. I know I ought to be silent, but the excitement of this keeps opening my mouth as a sneeze or a yawn does. Muhammad says, I ask forgiveness seventy times a day, and I do the same. Forgive me. Forgive my talking so much. But the way God makes mysteries manifest quickens and keeps the flow of words in me continual. A sleeper sleeps while his bedclothes drink in the riverwater. The sleeper dreams of running around looking for water and pointing in the dream to mirages, "Water! There! There!" It's that "There!" that keeps him asleep. "In the future, in the distance," those are illusions. Taste the here and the now of God. This present thirst is your real intelligence, not the back-and-forth, mercurial brightness. Discursiveness dies and gets put in the grave. This contemplative joy does not. Scholarly knowledge is a vertigo, an exhausted famousness. Listening is better. Being a teacher is a form of desire, a lightning flash. Can you ride to Wahksh, far up the Oxus River, on a streak of lightning? Lightning is not guidance. Lightning simply tells the clouds to weep. Cry a little. The streak-lightning of our minds comes so that we'll weep and long for our real lives. A child's intellect says, "I should go to school." But that intellect cannot teach itself. A sick person's mind says, "Go to the doctor," but that doesn't cure the patient. Some devils were sneaking up close to heaven trying to hear the secrets, when a voice came, "Get out of here. Go to the world. Listen to the prophets!" Enter the house through the door. It's not a long way. You are empty reeds, but you can become sugarcane again, if you'll listen to the guide. When a handful of dirt was taken from the hoofprint of Gabriel's horse and thrown inside the golden calf, the calf lowed! That's what the guide can do for you. The guide can make you live. The guide will take your falcon's hood off. Love is the falconer, your king. Be trained by that. Never say, or think, "I am better than... whoever." That's what Satan thought. Sleep in the spirit tree's peaceful shade, and never stick your head out from that green.
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Birdsong brings relief to my longing. I am just as ecstatic as they are, but with nothing to say! Please, universal soul, practice some song, or something, through me!
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The way of love is not a subtle argument. The door there is devastation. Birds make great sky-circles of their freedom. How do they learn it? They fall, and falling, they're given wings.
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Let your throat-song be clear and strong enough to make an emperor fall full-length, suppliant, at the door.
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I have phrases and whole pages memorized, but nothing can be told of love. You must wait until you and I are living together. In the conversation we'll have then... be patient... then.
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You've so distracted me, your absence fans my love. Don't ask how. Then you come near. "Do not...," I say, and "Do not...," you answer. Don't ask why this delights me.
You bind me, and I tear away in a rage to open out into air, a round brightness, a candlepoint, all reason, all love. This confusing joy, your doing, this hangover, your tender thorn. You turn to look, I turn. I'm not saying this right. I am a jailed crazy who ties up spirit-women. I am Solomon. What goes comes back. Come back. We never left each other. A disbeliever hides disbelief, but I will say his secret. More and more awake, getting up at night, spinning and falling with love for Shams.
I tried to think of some way to let my face become yours. "Could I whisper in your ear a dream I've had? You're the only one I've told this to." You tilt your head, laughing, as if, "I know the trick you're hatching, but go ahead." I am an image you stitch with gold thread on a tapestry, the least figure, a playful addition. But nothing you work on is dull. I am part of the beauty.
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I reach for a piece of wood. It turns into a lute. I do some meanness. It turns out helpful. I say one must not travel during the holy month. Then I start out and wonderful things happen.Contents
There's a game that's remembered in Iran called moshaereh, which means "being in company with poetry." One person says a line from Rumi, then the next person must begin a Rumi line with the word the first person's ended with. And so on for hours, I'm told, before television deadened the psyche, a family or a group of friends might continue.
Rumi was not the only poet used. It might be Hafiz, or Attar, or others. Poetry wove together the fabric of community and kept it lively. We have nothing comparable, except perhaps the nights of trading poems back and forth that sometimes happen in gatherings.
In December of 1273 when Rumi died, representatives of every major religion came to his funeral. In the midst of the crusades and violent sectarian conflict he said, "I go into the Muslim mosque and the Jewish synagogue and the Christian church and I see one altar."
And he made it clear in other places that someone who considers religion or nation an important human category is in danger of severing the heart from its ability to act compassionately. This is a radical idea now, but Rumi held the conviction in the thirteenth century with such deep gentleness that its truth was recognized.
"The way is full of genuine sacrifice. The thickets blocking the path are anything that keeps you from that, any fear that you may be broken to bits like a glass bottle. This road demands courage and stamina, yet it's full of footprints! Who are these companions? They are rungs in your ladder. Use them! With company you quicken your ascent. You may be happy enough going along, but with others you'll get farther, and faster. Someone who goes cheerfully by himself to the customs house to pay his traveler's tax will go even more lightheartedly when friends are with him. Every prophet sought out companions. A wall standing alone is useless, but put three or four walls together, and they'll support a roof and keep the grain dry and safe. When ink joins with a pen, then the blank paper can say something. Rushes and reeds must be woven to be useful as a mat. If they weren't interlaced, the wind would blow them away. Like that, God paired up creatures, and gave them friendship." This is how the fowler and the bird were arguing about hermitic living and Islam. It's a prolonged debate. Husam, shorten their controversy. Make the Mathnawi more nimble and less lumbering. Agile sounds are more appealing to the heart's ear.
Stay together, friends. Don't scatter and sleep. Our friendship is made of being awake. The waterwheel accepts water and turns and gives it away, weeping. That way it stays in the garden, whereas another roundness rolls through a dry riverbed looking for what it thinks it wants. Stay here, quivering with each moment like a drop of mercury.
A sufi was wandering the world. One night he came as a guest to a community of sufis. He tied up his donkey in the stable and then was welcomed to the head of the dais. They went into deep meditation and mystical communion, he and these friends. For such people a person's presence is more to learn from than a book. A sufi's book is not composed with ink and alphabet. A scholar loves, and lives on, the marks of a pen. A sufi loves footprints! He sees those and stalks his game. At first, he sees the clues. After a time he can follow the scent. To go guided by fragrance is a hundred times better than following tracks. A person who is opening to the divine is like a door to a sufi. What might appear a worthless stone to others, to him's a pearl. You see your image clearly in a mirror. A sheikh sees more than that in a discarded brick. Sufi masters are those whose spirits existed before the world. Before the body, they lived many lifetimes. Before seeds went into the ground, they harvested wheat. Before there was an ocean, they strung pearls. While the great meeting was going on about bringing human beings into existence, they stood up to their chins in wisdom water. When some of the angels opposed creation, the sufi sheikhs laughed and clapped among themselves. Before materiality, they knew what it was like to be trapped inside matter. Before there was a nightsky, they saw Saturn. Before wheat grains, they tasted bread. With no mind, they thought. Immediate intuition to them is the simplest act of consciousness, what to others would be epiphany. Much of our thought is of the past, or the future. They're free of those. Before a mine is dug, they judge coins. Before vineyards, they know the excitements to come. In July, they feel December. In unbroken sunlight, they find shade. In fana, the state where all objects dissolve, they recognize objects. The open sky drinks from their circling cup. The sun wears the gold of their generosity. When two of them meet, they are no longer two. They are one and six hundred thousand. The ocean waves are their closest likeness, when wind makes, from unity, the numerous. This happened to the sun, and it broke into rays through the window, into bodies. The disc of the sun does exist, but if you see only the ray-bodies, you may have doubts. The human-divine combination is a oneness. Plurality, the apparent separation into rays. Friend, we're traveling together. Throw off your tiredness. Let me show you one tiny spot of the beauty that cannot be spoken. I'm like an ant that's gotten into the granary, ludicrously happy, and trying to lug out a grain that's way too big.
The following is about the dangers of imitating others in your spiritual life. Meet the Friend on your own. Try to dissolve out of selfishness into a voice beyond those limits. A wandering sufi came with his donkey to a community of sufis who were very poor. He fed the donkey and gave it water, left it with his servant, and went inside. Immediately, a group of the resident sufis sold the donkey and bought food and candles for a feast. There was jubilation in the monastery! No more patience and three-day fasting! If you are rich and full-fed, don't laugh at the impulsiveness of the poor. They were not acting from their souls, but they were acting out of some necessity. The traveler joined in the festivities. They paid constant attention to him, caressing him, honoring him. The sema began. There was smoke from the kitchen, dust from the feet hitting the floor, and ecstasy from the longing of the dancers. Their hands were waving. Their foreheads swept low across the dais. It had been a long wait for such an occasion. Sufis always have to wait a long time for their desire. That's why they're such great eaters! The sufi who feeds on light, though, is different, but there's only one of those in a thousand. The rest live under that one's protection. The sema ran its course and ended. The poet began to sing a deep grief song, "The donkey is gone, my son. Your donkey is gone." Everyone joined in, clapping their hands and singing over and over, "The donkey is gone, my son. Your donkey is gone." And the visiting sufi sang more passionately than all the rest. Finally, it was dawn, and they parted with many good-byes. The banquet room was empty. The man brought out his baggage and called to his servant, "Where's my donkey?" "Look at you!" "What do you mean?" "They sold your donkey! That's how we had such a celebration!" "Why didn't you come and tell me?" "Several times I came near, but you were always singing so loudly, 'The donkey's gone, the donkey's gone,' that I thought you knew. I thought you had a secret insight." "Yes. It was my imitation of their joy that caused this." Even the good delight of friends is at first a reflection in you. Stay with them until it becomes a realization. The imitation here came from the man's desire to be honored. It deafened him to what was being so constantly said. Remember there's only one reason to do anything: a meeting with the Friend is the only real payment.
Some Hindus have an elephant to show. No one here has ever seen an elephant. They bring it at night to a dark room. One by one, we go in the dark and come out saying how we experience the animal. One of us happens to touch the trunk. "A water-pipe kind of creature." Another, the ear. "A very strong, always moving back and forth, fan-animal." Another, the leg. "I find it still, like a column on a temple." Another touches the curved back. "A leathery throne." Another, the cleverest, feels the tusk. "A rounded sword made of porcelain." He's proud of his description. Each of us touches one place and understands the whole in that way. The palm and the fingers feeling in the dark are how the senses explore the reality of the elephant. If each of us held a candle there, and if we went in together, we could see it.Contents
The egg is Rumi's image for the private place where each individual globe of soul fruit becomes elaborately unique. Incubation in secret practices produces the lovely differences. Out of one leathery egg, a sparrow, out of a similar one, a snake.
Transformations that happen on retreat, the forty-day chilla, are comparable to the changes that come during nine months in a human womb. Meditation, or any solitary practice (a walk before dawn, a poem every morning, sitting on the roof at sunset), gives depth and expands the soul's action.
A man in prison is sent a prayer rug by his friend. What he had wanted, of course, was a file or a crowbar or a key! But he began using the rug, doing five-times prayer before dawn, at noon, midafternoon, after sunset, and before sleep.
Bowing, sitting up, bowing again, he notices an odd pattern in the weave of the rug, just at the qibla, the point, where his head touches. He studies and meditates on that pattern, gradually discovering that it is a diagram of the lock that confines him in his cell and how it works. He's able to escape. Anything you do every day can open into the deepest spiritual place, which is freedom.
You're song, a wished-for song. Go through the ear to the center where sky is, where wind, where silent knowing. Put seeds and cover them. Blades will sprout where you do your work.
The Prophet Muhammad said, "There is no better companion on this way than what you do. Your actions will be your best friend, or if you're cruel and selfish, your actions will be a poisonous snake that lives in your grave." But tell me, can you do the good work without a teacher? Can you even know what it is without the presence of a Master? Notice how the owest livelihood requires some instruction. First comes knowledge, then the doing of the job. And much later, perhaps after you're dead, something grows from what you've done. Look for help and guidance in whatever craft you're learning. Look for a generous teacher, one who has absorbed the tradition he's in. Look for pearls in oyster shells. Learn technical skill from a craftsman. Whenever you meet genuine spiritual teachers, be gentle and polite and fair with them. Ask them questions, and be eager for answers. Never condescend. If a master tanner wears an old, threadbare smock, that doesn't diminish his mastery. If a fine blacksmith works at the bellows in a patched apron, it doesn't affect how he bends the iron. Strip away your pride, and put on humble clothes. If you want to learn theory, talk with theoreticians. That way is oral. When you learn a craft, practice it. That learning comes through the bands. If you want dervishhood, spiritual poverty, and emptiness, you must be friends with a sheikh. Talking about it, reading books, and doing practices don't help. Soul receives from soul that knowing. The mystery of spiritual emptiness may be living in a pilgrim's heart, and yet the knowing of it may not yet be his. Wait for the illuminating openness, as though your chest were filling with light, as when God said, Did We not expand you? (Qur'an 94:1) Don't look for it outside yourself. You are the source of milk. Don't milk others! There is a milk fountain inside you. Don't walk around with an empty bucket. You have a channel into the ocean, and yet you ask for water from a little pool. Beg for that love expansion. Meditate only on THAT. The Qur'an says, And He is with you (57:4). There is a basket of fresh bread on your head, and yet you go door to door asking for crusts. Knock on your inner door. No other. Sloshing knee-deep in fresh riverwater, yet you keep wanting a drink from other people's waterbags. Water is everywhere around you, but you see only barriers that keep you from water. The horse is beneath the rider's thighs, and still he asks, "Where's my horse?" Right there, under you! "Yes, this is a horse, but where's the horse?" Can't you see! "Yes, I can see, but whoever saw such a horse?" Mad with thirst, he can't drink from the stream running so close by his face. He's like a pearl on the deep bottom, wondering, inside his shell, Where's the ocean? His mental questionings form the barrier. His physical eyesight bandages his knowing. Self-consciousness plugs his ears. Stay bewildered in God, and only that. Those of you who are scattered, simplify your worrying lives. There is one righteousness: Water the fruit trees, and don't water the thorns. Be generous to what nurtures the spirit and God's luminous reason-light. Don't honor what causes dysentery and knotted-up tumors. Don't feed both sides of yourself equally. The spirit and the body carry different loads and require different attentions. Too often we put saddlebags on Jesus and let the donkey run loose in the pasture. Don't make the body do what the spirit does best, and don't put a big load on the spirit that the body could carry easily.
We are brought thick desserts, and we rarely refuse them. We worship devoutly when we're with others. Hours we sit, though we get up quickly after a few minutes, when we pray alone. We hurry down the gullet of our wantings. But these qualities can change, as minerals in the ground rise inside trees and become tree, as a plant faces an animal and enters the animal, so a human can put down the heavy body baggage and be light.
God called the Prophet Muhammad Muzzammil, "The One Who Wraps Himself," and said, "Come out from under your cloak, you so fond of hiding and running away. Don't cover your face. The world is a reeling, drunken body, and you are its intelligent head. Don't hide the candle of your clarity. Stand up and burn through the night, my prince. Without your light a great lion is held captive by a rabbit! Be the captain of the ship, Mustafa, my chosen one, my expert guide. Look how the caravan of civilization has been ambushed. Fools are everywhere in charge. Do not practice solitude like Jesus. Be in the assembly, and take charge of it. As the bearded griffin, the Humay, lives on Mt. Qaf because he's native to it, so you should live most naturally out in public and be a communal teacher of souls."
A friend remarks to the Prophet, "Why is it I get screwed in business deals? It's like a spell. I become distracted by business talk and make wrong decisions." Muhammad replies, "Stipulate with every transaction that you need three days to make sure." Deliberation is one of the qualities of God. Throw a dog a bit of something. He sniffs to see if he wants it. Be that careful. Sniff with your wisdom-nose. Get clear. Then decide. The universe came into being gradually over six days. God could have just commanded, Be! Little by little a person reaches forty and fifty and sixty, and feels more complete. God could have thrown full-blown prophets flying through the cosmos in an instant. Jesus said one word, and a dead man sat up, but creation usually unfolds, like calm breakers. Constant, slow movement teaches us to keep working like a small creek that stays clear, that doesn't stagnate, but finds a way through numerous details, deliberately. Deliberation is born of joy, like a bird from an egg. Birds don't resemble eggs! Think how different the hatching out is. A white leathery snake egg, a sparrow's egg; a quince seed, an apple seed: very different things that look similar at one stage. These leaves, our bodily personalities, seem identical, but the globe of soul fruit we make, each is elaborately unique.
Muhammad, in the presence of Gabriel, "Friend, let me see you as you really are. Let me look as an interested observer looks at his interest." "You could not endure it. The sense of sight is too weak to take in this reality." "But show yourself anyway, that I can understand what may not be known with the senses." The body senses are wavering and blurry, but there is a clear fire inside, a flame like Abraham, that is Alpha and Omega. Human beings seem to be derived, evolved, from this planet, but essentially, humanity is the origin of the world. Remember this! A tiny gnat's outward form flies around and around in pain and wanting, while the gnat's inward nature includes the entire galactic whirling of the universe! Muhammad persisted in his request, and Gabriel revealed a single feather that reached from the East to the West, a glimpse that would have instantly crumbled to powder a mountain range. Muhammad stared, senseless. Gabriel came and held him in his arms. Awe serves for strangers. This close-hugging love is for friends. Kings have formidable guards around them with swords drawn, a public show of power that keeps order and reduces arrogance and mischief and other disasters. But when the king comes to the private banquet with his friends, there's harp music and the flute. No kettledrums. And no keeping accounts, no judging behavior, no helmets, no armor. Just silk and music and beautiful women bringing cups. You know how it is, but who can say it! Conclude this part, my friend, and lead us the way we should go.
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We are the night ocean filled with glints of light. We are the space between the fish and the moon, while we sit here together.
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Which is worth more, a crowd of thousands, or your own genuine solitude? Freedom, or power over an entire nation? A little while alone in your room will prove more valuable than anything else that could ever be given you.Contents
One sufi image of the lines of transmission (silsila) is a great branching rosebush that grows elegantly on many levels and within several worlds at once.
Initiation and guidance come through the saints and keep the present moment dynamic and quivering with new growth. Majesty is that composite attention felt as a presence, dawn, a company of friends, a splendor that is prior to, and the source of, the universe. Rumi says it is a state of awareness best spoken of in terms of what it is not.
This we have now is not imagination. This is not grief or joy. Not a judging state, or an elation, or sadness. Those come and go. This is the presence that doesn't. It's dawn, Husam, here in the splendor of coral, inside the Friend, the simple truth of what Hallaj said. What else could human beings want? When grapes turn to wine, they're wanting this. When the nightsky pours by, it's really a crowd of beggars, and they all want some of this! This that we are now created the body, cell by cell, like bees building a honeycomb. The human body and the universe grew from this, not this from the universe and the human body.
Husam, tell about the visions of Daquqi, who said, "I have traveled East and West not knowing which way I was going, following the moon, lost inside God." Someone asked, "Why do you go barefooted over the stones and thorns?" "What," he answered. "What." A bewildered lover doesn't walk on feet. He or she walks on love. There are no "long" or "short" trips for those. No time. The body learned from the spirit how to travel. A saint's body moves in the unconditioned way, though it seems to be in conditionedness. Daquqi said, "One day I was going along looking to see in people the shining of the Friend, so I would recognize the ocean in a drop, the sun in a bright speck. I came to the shore at twilight and saw seven candles. I hurried along the beach toward them. The light of each lifted into the sky. I was amazed. My amazement was amazed. Waves of bewilderment broke over my head. What are these candles that no one seems to see? In the presence of such lights people were looking for lamps to buy! Then the seven became one, in the middle of the sky's rim. Then that fanned out to seven again. There were connections between the candles that cannot be said. I saw, but I cannot say. I ran closer. I fell. I lay there awhile. I got up and ran again. I had no head and no feet. They became seven men, and then seven trees, so dense with leaves and fruit that no limbs were visible. Flashes of light spurted from each fruit like juice! And most marvelous of all was that hundreds of thousands of people were passing beside the trees, risking their lives, sacrificing everything, to find some scrap of shade. They made peculiar parasols out of pieces of wool. They tried anything. And no one saw the trees with their tremendous shade! The caravans had no food, and yet food was dropping all about them. If anyone had said, 'Look! Over here!' they would have thought him insane, or drunk. How can this happen? Or am I dreaming? I walk up to the trees. I eat the fruit. I might as well believe. And still I see people searching so desperately for an unripe grape, with these vineyards around them, heavy with perfect bunches. Then the seven trees became one, and then seven again. At every second they were both seven and one. They were doing the ritual prayer, kneeling and bowing, without knees or waists! Then they were seven men seated in meditation for the sake of the one reality. I came closer and waved. They called, 'O Daquqi, the glory and the crown!' 'How do they know my name?' I thought. 'They've never seen me till now.' Immediately they knew my thought, and smiled at each other. 'Honored one, is this still hidden from you? How can anything be hidden from one so dissolved in God?' 'If this is the spirit-reality,' I said to myself, 'how is it we're speaking words and saying names?' One of the seven answered, 'Names, sometimes the names slip away, but it's not forgetfulness. It's our being so absorbed.' Then they all said to me, 'Would you lead us in prayer?' 'Yes. But wait awhile. I am still in some temporal confusion that will be solved by companionship with you. Through companionship with the ground a grapevine grows. It opens into the earth's darkness and flies. It becomes selfless in the presence of its origin and learns what it really is.' They nodded, as though saying, 'Whenever you're ready.' That nodding was a flame in my heart. I was freed from hourly time, from sequence and relation." Everyone has a stable and a trainer appointed to him or her. If you break away, the trainer comes and gets you. You think you're making choices, but the trainer is actually leading you around. You like to deny that you have a keeper. You say, "It's my powerful animal urges."
This is how a human being can change: there's a worm addicted to eating grape leaves. Suddenly, he wakes up, call it grace, whatever, something wakes him, and he's no longer a worm. He's the entire vineyard, and the orchard too, the fruit, the trunks, a growing wisdom and joy that doesn't need to devour.
When it's cold and raining, you are more beautiful. And the snow brings me even closer to your lips. The inner secret, that which was never born, you are that freshness, and I am with you now. I can't explain the goings, or the comings. You enter suddenly, and I am nowhere again. Inside the majesty.
You are the king's son. Why do you close yourself up? Become a lover. Don't aspire to be a general or a minister of state. One is a boredom for you, the other a disgrace. You've been a picture on a bathhouse wall long enough. No one recognizes you here, do they? God's lion disguised as a human being! I saw that and put down the book I was studying, Hariri's Maqamat. There is no early and late for us. The only way to measure a lover is by the grandeur of the beloved. Judge a moth by the beauty of its candle. Shams is invisible because he is inside sight. He is the intelligent essence of what is everywhere at once, seeing.
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The morning wind spreads its fresh smell. We must get up and take that in, that wind that lets us live. Breathe before it's gone.
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Slave, be aware that the Lord of all the East is here. A flickering storm cloud shows his lightnings to you! Your words are guesswork. He speaks from experience. There's a huge difference.Contents
The movement from mineral to plant to animal to human and beyond is often mentioned in Rumi's poetry. The successive "deaths" that are gone through as the soul ascends returning to God do not involve a severing from a lower form and a release into a higher.
Rather, each stage is incorporated in the next. In this section the pronouns widen out to the most inclusive model for identity I know of, from Jelaluddin to the surf and the evening breeze and the nightsky to the ultimate you. This progression cannot be spoken, and yet Rumi calls into the cosmos, "Say I am you."
He so obviously loves the world and each disguise the spirit takes. He savors the taste of being dust grain, chickpea, dog, camel, poet. This enthusiasm and joy in the moving through is primary, and it is difficult for some Westerners to accept.
Tragic knowledge, grief, fife as gradual subtraction - these are not the core insights for Rumi. At the center is a clarity, a great generous laughter, and love that sees bow everything alchemizes into the Friend. Some essential companionship flows as the lifeblood in Rumi's divine comedy.
When I press my hand to my chest, it is your chest. And now you're scratching my head! Sometimes you put me in the herd with your other camels. Sometimes you place me at the front of the troops as the commander. Sometimes you wet me with your mouth like you do your seal-ring just before you plant your power. Sometimes you round me into a simple door knocker. You take blood and make sperm. You take sperm and create an animal. You use the animal to evolve intelligence. Life keeps leading to more life. You drive me away gently as a flute song does a dove from the eaves. With the same song you call me back. You push me out on many journeys; then you anchor me with no motion at all. I am water. I am the thorn that catches someone's clothing. I don't care about marvelous sights! I only want to be in your presence. There's nothing to believe. Only when I quit believing in myself did I come into this beauty. I saw your blade and burned my shield! I flew on six hundred pairs of wings like Gabriel. But now that I'm here, what do I need wings for? Day and night I guarded the pearl of my soul. Now in this ocean of pearling currents, I've lost track of which was mine. There is no way to describe you. Say the end of this so strongly that I will ride up over my own commotion.
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We have this way of talking, and we have another. Apart from what we wish and what we fear may happen, we are alive with other life, as clear stones take form in the mountain.
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This piece of food cannot be eaten, nor this bit of wisdom found by looking. There is a secret core in everyone not even Gabriel can know by trying to know.
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In the slaughterhouse of love, they kill only the best, none of the weak or deformed. Don't run away from this (lying. Whoever's not killed for love is dead meat.
Muhammad could mediate for every kind of disgrace, because he looked so unswervingly at God. His eye medicine came from his ever-expanding into God. Any orphan daubed with that salve will get better. He could see all the attainments of those on the way. Hence God called him "the witness." The tools of the witness are truthfulness and keen seeing and the night vigil. This is the witness a judge listens most carefully to. A false witness has some self-interest that makes his testimony specious. He can't see the whole. That's why God wants you to deny your desires, so you will learn how to give up self-interest. It's the love of the manifest world that makes you an unreliable witness. There is another way of seeing that sees through your love of this place, through the exciting drunkenness to the headache. The witness can cure that hurting. God is the just judge, who calls the true witness, the eye of pure love, the darling, the dalliance, the reason inside the playfulness that created phenomena.
Don't go anywhere without me. Let nothing happen in the sky apart from me, or on the ground, in this world or that world, without my being in its happening. Vision, see nothing I don't see. Language, say nothing. The way the night knows itself with the moon, be that with me. Be the rose nearest to the thorn that I am. I want to feel myself in you when you taste food, in the arc of your mallet when you work, when you visit friends, when you go up on the roof by yourself at night. There's nothing worse than to walk out along the street without you. I don't know where I'm going. You're the road and the knower of roads, more than maps, more than love.
Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form. The child weaned from mother's milk now drinks wine and honey mixed. God's joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box, from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flowerbed. As roses, up from ground. Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish, now a cliff covered with vines, now a horse being saddled. It hides within these, till one day it cracks them open. Part of the self leaves the body when we sleep and changes shape. You might say, "Last night I was a cypress tree, a small bed of tulips, a field of grapevines." Then the phantasm goes away. You're back in the room. I don't want to make anyone fearful. Hear what's behind what I say. Tatatumtum tatum tatadum. There's the light gold of wheat in the sun and the gold of bread made from that wheat. I have neither. I'm only talking about them, as a town in the desert looks up at stars on a clear night.
I am part of the load not rightly balanced. I drop off in the grass, like the old cave-sleepers, to browse wherever I fall. For hundreds of thousands of years I have been dust grains floating and flying in the will of the air, often forgetting ever being in that state, but in sleep I migrate back. I spring loose from the four-branched, time-and-space cross, this waiting room. I walk into a huge pasture. I nurse the milk of millennia. Everyone does this in different ways. Knowing that conscious decisions and personal memory are much too small a place to live, every human being streams at night into the loving nowhere, or during the day, in some absorbing work.
In the Name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate.
The start of the second book of the Mathnawi has been postponed, and the reason is this: sometimes God reveals all the wisdom of doing a certain action, and the listener becomes so overwhelmed in contemplating that, that he is unable to perform it. Lost in the infinity, with no ability to understand, or do, anything.
God then reduces the wisdom portion, and makes a small bridle to fit over the listener's head to lead him by. The size of the bridle is important when you're dealing with a stubborn camel. Too heavy, and he'll lie down and refuse to move. Too slight, and he'll ignore it.
The proportion of wisdom to personal advantage is a subtle mixture, like that of clay and water to make bricks. Too little water, and it won't cohere. Too much, and it washes away.
God gives attention to an individual's balance, except when giving to those described in the text, He gives, and they receive without calculating. But that state cannot be understood without tasting it.
Someone once asked, "What is love?"
"Be lost in me," I said. "You'll know love when that happens." Love has no calculating in it. That's why it's said to be a quality of God and not of human beings. "God loves you" is the only possible sentence. The subject becomes the object so totally that it can't be turned around. Who will the "you" pronoun stand for, if you say, "You love God"?
Prose Preface to Book II
Sometimes a lover of God may faint in the presence. Then the beloved bends and whispers in his ear, "Beggar, spread out your robe. I'll fill it with gold. I've come to protect your consciousness. Where has it gone? Come back into awareness!" This fainting is because lovers want so much. A chicken invites a camel into her henhouse, and the whole structure is demolished. A rabbit nestles down with its eyes closed in the arms of a lion. There is an excess in spiritual searching that is profound ignorance. Let that ignorance be our teacher! The Friend breathes into one who has no breath. A deep silence revives the listening and the speaking of those two who meet on the riverbank. Like the ground turning green in a spring wind. Like birdsong beginning inside the egg. Like this universe coming into existence, the lover wakes, and whirls in a dancing joy, then kneels down in praise.
I am dust particles in sunlight. I am the round sun. To the bits of dust I say, Stay. To the sun, Keep moving. I am morning mist, and the breathing of evening. I am wind in the top of a grove, and surf on the cliff. Mast, rudder, helmsman, and keel, I am also the coral reef they founder on. I am a tree with a trained parrot in its branches. Silence, thought, and voice. The musical air coming through a flute, a spark of a stone, a flickering in metal. Both candle, and the moth crazy around it. Rose, and the nightingale lost in the fragrance. I am all orders of being, the circling galaxy, the evolutionary intelligence, the lift, and the falling away. What is, and what isn't. You who know Jelaluddin, You the one in all, say who I am. Say I am You.Contents
The "turn," the moving meditation done by Mevlevi dervishes, originated with Rumi. The story goes that he was walking in the goldsmithing section of Konya when he heard a beautiful music in their hammering. He began turning in harmony with it, an ecstatic dance of surrender and yet with great centered discipline. He arrived at a place where ego dissolves and a resonance with universal soul comes in.
Dervish literally means "doorway." When what is communicated moves from presence to presence, darshan occurs, with language inside the seeing. When the gravitational pull gets even stronger, the two become one turning that is molecular and galactic and a spiritual remembering of the presence at the center of the universe. Turning is an image of how the dervish becomes an empty place where human and divine can meet. To approach the whole the part must become mad, by conventional standards at least. These ecstatic holy people, called matzubs in the sufi tradition, redefine this sort of madness as true health.
When he saw the dervishes in Cairo in 1910, Rainer Maria Rilke, the great spiritual poet of this century, said the turn was a form of kneeling. "It is so truly the mystery of the kneeling of the deeply kneeling man. With Rumi the scale is shifted, for in following the peculiar weight and strength in his knees, he belongs to that world in which height is depth. This is the night of radiant depth unfolded." December 17 is celebrated each year as Rumi's Wedding Night, the night he died in 1273 and reached full union.
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Inside water, a waterwheel turns. A star circulates with the moon. We live in the night ocean wondering, What are these lights?
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You have said what you are. I am what I am. Your actions in my head, my head here in my hands with something circling inside. I have no name for what circles so perfectly.
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A secret turning in us makes the universe turn. Head unaware of feet, and feet head. Neither cares. They keep turning.
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This moment this love comes to rest in me, many beings in one being. In one wheat grain a thousand sheaf stacks. Inside the needle's eye a turning night of stars.
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Keep walking, though there's no place to get to. Don't try to see through the distances. That's not for human beings. Move within, but don't move the way fear makes you move.
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Walk to the well. Turn as the earth and the moon turn, circling what they love. Whatever circles comes from the center.
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I circle your nest tonight, around and around until morning when a breath of air says, Now, and the Friend holds up like a goblet some anonymous skull.
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No better love than love with no object, no more satisfying work than work with no purpose. If you could give up tricks and cleverness, that would be the cleverest trick!
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Some nights stay up till dawn, as the moon sometimes does for the sun. Be a full bucket pulled up the dark way of a well, then lifted out into light.
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I am so small I can barely be seen. How can this great love be inside me? Look at your eyes. They are small, but they see enormous things.
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When you feel your lips becoming infinite and sweet, like the moon in a sky, when you feel that spaciousness inside, Shams of Tabriz will be there too.
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The sun is love. The lover, a speck circling the sun. A Spring wind moves to dance any branch that isn't dead.
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Something opens our wings. Something makes boredom and hurt disappear. Someone fills the cup in front of us. We taste only sacredness.
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Held like this, to draw in milk, no will, tasting clouds of milk, never so content.
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I stand up, and this one of me turns into a hundred of me. They say I circle around you. Nonsense. I circle around me.
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I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door. It opens. I've been knocking from the inside!
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Real value comes with madness, matzub below, scientist above. Whoever finds love beneath hurt and grief disappears into emptiness with a thousand new disguises.
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Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance, when you're perfectly free.Contents