Picasa Web Albums - Cassie - Rumi Immersion

Picasa Web Albums - Cassie - Rumi Immersion

Snowing Rain

Surrounded by rain, surrounded by Love
Rain
I sit listening to the soft yet constant pattering of rain on the roof, bathing in the gray afternoon light of Seattle in December. Raindrops shift to snowflakes back to rain this whole day. A day of pause for me, having barely made it home for Christmas. Mechanical problems on the plane in Istanbul caused an unexpected stop in London, where we ended up spending the night. Our consequential missed flight connections caused another night's stay in New York. Two angels dressed up in Delta shirts booked me a flight to "San Francisco" via Seattle (and then Salt Lake City) in order to get me home on time. (Rules are that any rebooking of flights must be to the same destination of the orignial ticket (which was SFO). I was originally going to have a day to rest and repack and then fly to Seattle from Oakland, but I had let go of this plan in London).
Snow
Maybe it's because I am partly sick and recovering from jet lag, but part of me wasn't ready for Christmas. After barely making it home, and returning from a fairly intense journey, it felt strange to be whisked up and pushed along with all of the Christmas traditions and gatherings and people and services. Whoah! Hold on! I'm not ready for schedules and outings and presents and traditions. I just want to sit here, with laughter and stories, until the sounds of hearth's drums lull us to sleep. I just want to bask in the presence of my beloved, spirit touching spirit, with silence our embrace.
The snow is melting from the roads and tree boughs. People return to their cars, scattering slush off the side of the streets. I want this unusual weather to stay a little longer. Freeze this moment- in between venture and return- a few more days. Put a frozen sanctuary around time and just cherish. Cherish before do. Cherish before act.
Snowing Harder
I am surrounded by water, surrounded by Love
The trip gradually allows for my reflection. I think of my homeward bound traveling companions and the ways in which we each fell apart and found strength and even offered others a pillar on which to lean. How Perry, when hearing the announcement of our unexpected landing in London, sensed the deep fear of his airplane row companion. Recognizing the words uttered beneath her breath, he joined her in saying Al Fatiha, the Islamic prayer spoken before each Call to Prayer. How we looked after one another, still sensing the continued pilgrimage we were on. How, in a jet of almost 300 people, we said goodbye to the strangers-no-longer with whom we had shared anxiety and gratitude over the last two days.
What else longs for my remembrance?
Ah, the food! The savory olives doused in olive oil, and the abundant and colorful cheeses! Lentil soup and the piles and piles of bread...
The Call to Prayer on loud speaker sounding out over the gorgeous city of Istanbul.
Remembering perhaps most sorely, the melodies of the Elijas and Sufi chants that keep bubbling up into my throat.
And the zickurs- perhaps the memory furthest from my life here. The risk of entering, with others, into song and chant and rhythm and prayer.
The Dervish Brother's House filled with warm rugs and even warmer hospitality.
And, of course, the precious souls who guided our journey- Ismael Baba, Duja Hanim, Katherin Hanim, Issa Baba, and Ibrahim Baba.
Holding these memories is like sweet honey to my soul.

Grateful for Gratitude

Giving thanks for abundance
is sweeter than the abundance itself.
Should one who is absorbed with the Generous One
be distracted by the gift?
Thankfulness is the soul of benifence;
abundance is but the hunk,
for thankfulness brings you to the place where the Beloved lives.
Abundance yields heedlessness;
thankfulness, alertness:
hunt for bounty with the snare of gratitude to the King.
Mathnawi III: 2895-2897

At last I sit alone. The Call to Prayer is singing outside the window of my hotel room, cracked open for optimal listening. It is good to sit alone. It has been such a beautiful trip. Beautiful with laughter. Beautiful with the joy of sharing with other human beings the depths of my own heart and the wonders of this world. I have so relished the time with these beautiful souls with whom I have traveled and in this moment I cherish the solitude. I am leaving this adventure tomorrow and the trip now begs my reflection.
I can feel my gratitude. It feels like a cushy box that surrounds me. The edges are soft and when I flex my toes up towards my heart, my gratitude gets more intense and warm. But it is always there. In Konya, Ibrahim Baba (Baba is a term for endearment for people who are special and great teachers. That is my translation at least!) gave a sochbet (class) on gratitude. He spoke how much we (at least in the U.S.) forget to value gratitude. That remembering gratitude is a spiritual practice and also a kind of activism.
When Ibrahim Baba spoke, some thing unleashed inside me. Here I am, Lord! This is me, Ibrahim is talking about. Gratitude and love for life is such a huge part of my being and for so long I have, in small ways, hidden it or not know what to do with it. I have posed it against critical thinking and scorned myself for not analyzing things as readily as my classmates. I do not want to create a binary between gratitude and criticism. I believe one can be a very grateful person and have a critical mind, critiquing culture and systems of oppression in this world. But I have come to prize critique way over gratitude for what has and what is that has allowed me to exist in the present moment. And Ibrahim's words helped me to know myself in a more loving and confident way.
There is so much more to write but I will leave it here for now.
In deep gratitude for this small piece of time I am able to have on this beautiful earth, Cassie

The Song of the Reed

The Song of the Reed
by Hazrett Mevlana Yelaluddin Rumi

Now listen to this reed-flute's deep lament
About the heartache being apart has meant:

Since from the reed-bed they uprooted me
My song's expressed each human's agony,

A breast which separation"s split in two
Is what I seek, to share this pain with you:

When kept from their true origin, all yearn
For union on the day they can return.

Amongst the crowd, alone i mourn my fate,
With good and bad I've learned to integrate,

That we were friends each one was satisfied,
But none sought out my secrets from inside,
My deepest secrets in this song I wail
But eyes and ears can't penetrate the veil:

Body and soul are joined to form one whole
But no one is allowed to see my soul.

It's fire, not just hot air the reed flute's cry,
If you don't have this fire than you should die!

Love's fire is what makes every redd-flute pine,
Love's fervor thus lends potency to wine,

The reed consoles those forced to be apart,
It's notes will life the veil upon your heart

Where's antidote or poison like this song,
Or confidant or one who's pined so long?

This reed relates a torturous path ahead,
Recalls a love with which Majnun's heart bled.

The few who hear the truths the reed has sung
Have lost their wits so they can speak this tongue.

The day is wasted if its spent in grief,
Consumed by burning aches without relief

Good time have long passed, but we wouldn't care
When you're with us, our friend beyond compare!

While ordinary men on drops can thrive
A fish needs oceans daily to survive

They way the ripe must feel the raw can't tell
My speech must be concise and so fairwell!

translated by Jawid Mojaddedi

The Mevlani order of Tasawwf (similar to Sufism) claims this poem as a primary foundation to their path. We are all searching for a deeper love, a connection with that greater source of Love that is in all of us, in the mountains and hills, and is in Allah. Shams was a dear beloved to Rumi and when he was forced out of Turkey, Rumi started writing his separation poetry. His longing for reconnection with the Beloved does not distinguish between human love and divine love.
When I began this journey, I was coming from a place of a mild but present amount of disconnection and lostness in my life in Oakland/ Berkeley. As this trip has progressed, I realize that I have a lot of fear around exclusion. I am realizing that it is all part of the same thing: my longing for love is a longing for connection with Spirit that is alive in everyone as well as the Great Eternal One. I also think that my quest for this love comes from a need to be known.
Laughter and music, levity and gravity help me to feel known by others. Right now there is a music therapists group staying at the Dervish Brothers House and we have had the opportunity to sit in on some of their sessions. One of the things that stuck with me last night was that we are all reeds plucked from our Source, and that life is about the striving to reconnect with that Source. This is what music is. And I would add laughter, play, deep listening, mind altering substances, sex, food, and, of course, ultimate frisbe.
It is good to be reminded of my incompleteness and capacity for wholeness as we join in the Muslim Call to Prayer everyday, as we do Zicker, remembrance, and raise our voices and our hearts to the One who's love is everlasting and all-embracing. It is good to feel known by my traveling companions. Amein, Evallah.

Let me love you

Thıs trıp ıs helpıng me to see that İ love to love God. I probably could've fıgured thıs out a whıle ago, but there's not that many opportunıtıes to really praıse God where İ lıve. İts almost lıke, gıve me somethıng to worshıp, as long as ıt doesn,t hurt somethıng or someone else, and İ'll worshıp ıt. Rather, I think it is, gıve me a way to worshıp, and ı,ll open my heart to ıt. all ways to worshıp lead to Allah. La ılahe ıllallah. Nothıng exısts outsıde of the Oneness of Beıng. I feel I am made to worshıp God. Made to praıse Allah and offer my lıfe ın thanksgıvıng and adoratıon. Of course, sometımes I don,t feel completely at home ın a certaın kınd of prayer or worshıp. But what an honor to be able to experıence all these dıfferent ways to love Allah. And I am so grateful to be wıth people who ı feel know me and I can trust to hold me ın all thıs openıng and rıskıng of love of Allah.

levıty and prayer

Thank God for Amına Nur. Amına Nur ıs a 6 year old gırl who ıs part of our group. I have a tendency to take everythıng so serıously. I don't know ıf Amına Nur ıs ever outsıde of play. She ıs constantly jumpıng, crawlıng, slıdıng as a lıon, cat, or frog. She ınvolves everyone ın her play and helps me to keep perspectıve. Sometımes I can burden thıs experıence of worshıp and communıng wıth the dıvıne wıth a serıousness that takes me away from thıs world ınstead of makıng me more ıntımate wıth ıt. Blessed Be Allah and Blessed be the beautıful manıfestatıons of play and laughter that gıves Allah reason to smıle and reason to love.

Sema and the movement of Spırıt

Sema ıs a state of beıng. A unıon wıth the ultımate, wıth Allah, wıth God. When we went to the Sema last nıght, I had the huge gıft of sıttıng next to the Shayka, a descendent of Rumı and a hıghly respected relıgıous leader here. The Sema ceremony consısted of four movements of the semazıns turnıng. Each movement had dıfferent musıc and each brought to me a dıfferent feelıng. Wıth so many semazıns spınnıng ın the mıddle of thıs huge theatre type room, you can feel the breeze they create. As the semazıns are spınnıng, they are becomıng lost ın Love. They enter and retreat from heaven and earth a thousand tımes as they turn and open themselves to the Infınıte Source, the Unıon of All Beıng, God.
I lıke to thınk that I was somehow a part of theır unıon wıth God. That somehow thıs peace was caught on the wıngs of the breeze that brushed my face and kıssed my forehead.

insha'allah and welcome

Welcome to my Rumi Imersion reflections. The entries that follow are inspired by a class I am currently taking that has taken me to Istanbul and Konya in Turkey and into the rhythm, prayers, and love in which Rumi and his Mevlani followers lived and live. The entries are rather short because internet connection and computer availability here are sparse. Because of this my usual essay stye writing has morphed into a rough kind of poetry. I hope you enjoy and I hope write more thoroughly at some time, insha'allah.

God willıng, Primero a Dios, Ojala, Insha,allah. Here, there is hardly a paragraph that ıs spoken without "insha'allah." It ıs a blessing that each of us are born. Each moment, a blessing, a gıft, an ınvıtatıon towards unıon wıth that whıch holds us, holds all, nothıng exısts outsıde of thıs holding.
In the u.s., ıt is uncustomary to ask for permıssıon and to gıve thanks. We do ıt but it ıs not part of our ordınary, everyday conversatıons. Instead of ınsha'allah, we have ındıvıdual plans, determınatıon, agendas. If we compromıse, ıt ıs a sıgn of weakness, femınınıty, cowardness.
To me, İnsha'allah means acknowledgıng that we are not the ultımate creators. We are not everythıng and cannot know everythıng. There ıs a beauty and mystery that holds us and makes us. We are part of thıs beauty and yet ıt ıs greater that we wıll ever know.
Let us open ourselves to thıs lıfe, thıs gıft, thıs moment. Ameın. Evallah.