rumi

today marks eight hundred and one years since the birth of the great sufi poet and mystic jalalu'ddin rumi, also known as mevlana. he lived in thirteenth century konya in central turkey, where the mevlevi order of dervishes (commonly known as whirling dervishes) have their origin.

his work was to share a message:

why should i seek?

i am the same as he.

his essence speaks through me.

i have been looking for myself!

much of rumi's writing uses the metaphor of the passion of lovers to describe the relationship between man and God.

the inner pilgrim wraps himself in the light of the holy spirit, transforming his material shape into the inner essence, and circumambulating the shrine of the heart, inwardly reciting the name of God. he moves in circles because the path of the essence is not straight but circular. its end is its beginning. abdul qadir jelani (about ad 1077)

rumi saw inside the metaphor of love and passion and in that seeing he sank deep into the connection between all things in all ways.

it is entirely about love. it is entirely about passion. the terms of those two states become richer and more beautiful as the knowing of them becomes less connected to this earthly existence (needs and wants and expectations) and more about becoming aware of and connected to the wholeness of everything.

if you could get rid of yourself just once, the secret of secrets would open to you. the face of the unknown, hidden beyond the universe would appear on the mirror of your perception.

search, no matter what situation you are in. o thirsty one, search for water constantly. finally, the time will come when you will reach the spring.

the minute i heard my first love story i started looking for you not knowing how blind i was. lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. they’re in each other all along.

and if he closes before you all the ways and passes, he will show you a hidden way which nobody knows.

keep strenuously toiling along this path, do not rest until the last breath; for that last breath may yet bring the blessings from the knower of all things.

like the hunter, the sufi chases game; he sees the tracks left by the musk deer and follows them. for a while it is the tracks which are his clues, but later it is the musk itself which guides him.

choose a master, for without him this journey is full of tribulations, fears, and dangers. with no escort, you would be lost on a road you would have already taken. do not travel alone on the path.

whoever travels without a guide needs two hundred years for a two-days’ journey.

last night my teacher taught me the lesson of poverty: having nothing and wanting nothing.

and a poem

not only the thirsty seek the water, the water as well seeks the thirsty.

the garden of

love

is green without

limit

and yields many

fruits

other than sorrow

and joy.

love is beyond either

condition:

without spring,

without autumn,

it is always fresh.

-- jelaluddin rumi

i became water

image courtesy phil douglis


i became water
and saw myself
a mirage
became an ocean
saw myself a speck
of foam
gained awareness
saw that all is but
forgetfulness
woke up
and found myself
asleep.

binavi badakhshani


in this writing, the person becomes water . . . and in that manifestation they experience the emptiness of artifice in the form of a mirage, become the allness of everything in the form of an ocean, and then the absolute of insignificance as a speck of foam.

then, in a moment of benevolent awareness the writer receives three more gifts; the recognition that they have forgotten everything, woken up and found themselves asleep. it is that self-awareness - that stepping away from everything (including your"self") - and realizing that (like gurdjieff's mechanical manifestations masquerading as people) - the unrealized individual (when given this shattering awakening) could transcend the mechanical, acted-upon self and ascend from mere personality to self-actualizing essence.

winter in a moment, in its fullness

in a little place, in a brief moment - winter looks like this.



dry wisps of yellowed winter grass. a cold, thin breeze. snow rustling like sugar.

the great sufi poet rumi saw winter in its fullness . . .


winter is a time for death.
do you think death is a bad thing?
then you still haven't got it.
you've lived countless lives and died
countless deaths in an endless process of evolution.
each death has brought you more life.
without, death, there is no rebirth.
the ultimate death is nothing to do with the body.
it is the death of your self as separate from God.
you are standing at the edge of his ocean of love.
plunge below the surf of separation.
dive into the mystical depth.
dissolve yourself into that sea.
like a moth around a candle, be irresistibly drawn
to the light until you are engulfed by flames in an inferno of communion.
the lover chooses the fire because he knows
the secret: "the honey is worth the sting." rumi

the sun

"that i exist is a perpetual surprise, which is life". rabindranath tagore

the sun gives without condition . . . its gift is received and used in every way imaginable . . .

what can be learned from such benevolence . . . .

a stone which has become a ruby
is filled with the qualities of the sun.
no stoniness remains in it.
if it loves itself, it is loving the sun.
and if it loves the sun, it is loving itself.
there is no difference between these two loves.

jelaluddin rumi