rumi

Be the light.

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A café on a sunny beach in Goa. Lunch with friends. Rava dosa and spicy sambar. In walks a woman of European descent, possibly a few years older than me. She sits at the table opposite us. She has two deep vertical frown lines just above either side of the bridge of her nose. They seem to be fixed in place. She orders a white coffee and waits, looking at her phone and then turning to look out of the window. Looking at her phone and turning her head towards the window. This pattern repeats. The lines stay firmly in place. I wonder why. She is obviously travelling. Wonder if she has someone with her or not. Has she made some friends here? I wonder if I should ask but it might seem strange to her and others in the eatery.

I was still debating whether I should or shouldn’t, when I saw her pay her bill and leave. I excused myself and followed her out. She walked to the right with her arms crossed across her chest and her head bent forward.

“Excuse me.” I called out. She turned around.

“Sorry to disturb you. I was in the café there. You seemed to be worried about something. Of course, it’s not my business but if there’s something you want to talk about, I have time.”

‘Oh. Thank you. Things are not great at home. Nothing too serious but I feel so far away.’

“I am sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

‘Yes. I am okay, I think.  I have a couple of friends. We’ll meet up later and talk things over. Thank you for bringing some light into my day.’ She smiled, the frown softening.

“May I give you a hug?” I asked.

“Yes. Please.”

We had a moment, said our goodbyes. I slipped back into the café, gently sat down and blended back into the conversation.

“If everything around seems dark, look again, you may be the light.”

– Rumi.

For this new year and for ever more, I wish you be the light that you are, for others and yourself.

It changes. And changes again.

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Over and over I asked myself – Now what? Now what? What happens after a severance such as this? How long do one’s bones bleed? Do the tears ever finish? What does ‘recovery’ look like? Is it even possible? How does one keep placing one foot in front of the other? Where is the road? Where does it come from? Where does it go? How long and meandering is it? When does the screaming in my head stop? How long can I keep up the facade? Pretend to be sane? Is this what a new diagnosis of a terminal illness feels like? Is forgiveness possible? Self-forgiveness? Acceptance? Surrender? All these big words! Surrender what? To whom? Who am I now? What do I do?

No answers. Silence. The tilted earth keeps spinning around its imaginary axis. It keeps cradling me. The sun stays at the center of its orbit. My son stays at the center of my being. My breath keeps coming and going. I grow new eyes. My bones carry my weight even though they bleed. The road appears under my feet. It reveals itself one step at a time. Rumi and Khalil Gibran come and hold my hand. The screaming softens. The wall of bricks that was my body, loosens. I come to know the terror and the joy of being insane, catch glimpses of being free. Respect for those who went before and sadly others, who follow. I stop fighting with the big words and keep it simple. Watch. Observe. See. Open. Let the gash in my heart, allow the light in.

A recent talk for The Compassionate Friends, a charity dedicated to supporting bereaved families.

Thank you, Rumi.

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Welcome, unexpected visitor.

The Guest House

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.

  • by Jalaluddin Rumi.

Day 818

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The Tale of the Reed Flute by Rumi

Listen to the reed flute and its tale.

Complaining of separation:

Since they cut me off from the bed of reeds

Men and women lament the sound of my cry.

Due to separation, I want chests torn to shreds

To describe the pain of desire

Anyone distant from his origins

Will seek to return to them.

Lamenting at every gathering,

I am the friend of both

The happy and the unhappy

Each believes himself to be my friend,

Yet none searches for my secrets.

My secret is not far from my lamentation,

Yet my eyes and ears do not have that light.