from "delicious Laughter" - coleman Barks and Rumi

[Guest guest]

Excerpt from "Delicious Laughter, Rambunctious Teaching Stories from

the Mathnawi" by Coleman Barks.

 

(Note: Husam was Rumi's much loved assistant. Rumi teases him.)

 

 

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 rain water. 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, 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.

- Mathnawi, V, 1-149, 163, 167

-

 

"unless you are free, you won't enjoy your tendencies"

 

~Cee

 

 

LoveAlways,

 

Mazie