A Risk I'll Take

I arrived here with certain impressions,
already within me traditions long in the tooth --
images unfolded ever so gradually in childhood
and reached their head in my heart's search for truth,

some four decades back, as I met and embraced
the path of devotional love and of service, uncompromised,
expressed through traditions of all the world's faiths --
for which I would risk at times being criticized.

I'd loved my Old Testament since I was a child,
now reading the New one I suddenly got it --
something was brewing in me, waking and wild,
wind of The Great Love came in and I caught it.

From this time forth and for a dozen years further,
I studied and practiced, was intimately instructed:
in Scriptures and Yoga, Sufism of some Orders --
and I did love what I believed was Islam, Qur'an and Muhammad.

So what I know now I knew then but not really --
one adheres to a myth and reflects not on all,
for to be confronted oneself is most painfully
clear, yet for love of Sufism I'd felt oddly loyal

toward just that which had seen to the murder of Sufis
over centuries, and of Sikhs, of Hindus, of Christians, Jews,
as a matter of course, a matter of Scripture and example, pleas
for mercy notwithstanding -- so what am I risking if I lose

the shine of unquestioning appreciation for Islam?
The sign of maturity is worth the risk of angering those less awake
who may be appeasers or compromisers, I remain what I am
and always was, and God willing will be:  it is a risk I'll gladly take

 
for the sake of love, that love which brought me here,
brought me here with certain impressions.  The greatest of these
was awakened in me anew, the love which sees God everywhere,
and serves Him in every form, by awakening that love likewise

reflected through these eyes, the smallest gesture, accepting each
fellow creature as divine and dear, overcoming base loathing and fear.
The Sufi tradition, alive in me as ever, how dearly I would any teach
who came wanting it -- Gospels, Yoga, Bhajan, Kirtan -- it's all still here

wherever I am, and should Islam and its Muslims be irritated as hell
that I don't bend, that's a risk I'll take, even welcome -- but bend I won't;
nor for their apologists nor appeasers nor enablers, each of whom I still wish well,
knowing well they wish not the same.  I might regret this but still I don't.

Sufism will always be Sufism, expanding and blessing with its presence and God's;
compassion and empathy for Islam's victims, Muslim and non-Muslim alike,
is the way of ishq, karuna, agape, all terms expressing unconditionally what
"tolerance" never could.  And Islam will always be what it always was, to wake

up to this is by no means easy, but healthier and more responsible --
though should I ever prove to be mistaken, that is a risk I'm willing to take,
for in the meantime I remain for all my actions and sympathies accountable.
And should Islam prove me correct, I will confront it for God's sake.

That's a risk, again, to be taken -- I've had so many come and go -- God will stay,
by whatever name, I wish each dearly that experience.  No illusions, nothing fake,
no Sikh would fault me for defending the defenseless, or one's culture, come what may.
I will witness, I'll speak out, I will pray and I will fight, I'll risk my life -- that risk I'll take.

WTF?!

Is not Boko Haram the real face of Islam?

Or are there Muslims intervening,

when mosques fill up five times from

mornings till noon, and on into evening?

Do they ever collect for their purses,

or exercise such faith-muscled intention

to exorcise themselves of these four
                                                    curses:

self-pity, supremacy, misogyny and
                                                   aggression?

I can joke about Jews, I can criticize Christians,

irritate Evangelists, satirize Sikhs, polemicize

Pentecostals, pun on names of every nation,

but it's "offend not the Muslims" for they're on the rise!

These peace-loving Muslims I keep hearing about –

are they there, do they care? Tolerant are they indeed, but of whom?

God knows their hearts, our politicians clearly not –

confront Boko Haram or just distance themselves, conceding room?

Sunni and Shi'ite compete in loathing and murder, in scheming

bound hands and feet since the origin of their species; no love

is lost where none there was, "There is no room for God!"

                                                    is what I hear them screaming

from minaret to minaret, region to region, age to age.

Sufism, being of no traceable age

in embodying light, quite conscious'

took on the mantle of Islam, minus the rage –

in order to clean it of its darkness.

I do not have the means, I'm afraid, to deliver, or bring

succor to all who've suffered by this "Islam" – do not

wonder that I sleep with the weight of all their killing

and barbarism, Damascus or Baghdad, in war and prior to it.

How odd, that ISIS carries the name of a goddess they'd abhor,

ask any one of these Jihadis or their wives, they don't know themselves;

puerile hatred of the modern which they use, rejecting all and wanting more –

perhaps reading right to left they see 21^st century as 12^th.

How odd, that there, among whom Compassionate and Merciful

are repeated in millions of mouths a thousand times daily, one is told;

there, among whom it is said "In Islam there is no compulsion,"

are women whipped, gays hanged, boys raped, children sold;

Christians ousted, churches mocked, no discusssion, bibles burned;

woe to you should you convert to something else, your loathesome

daring will be repaid by those who keep their women interred –

yes, go be Christian and die a martyr by the blood-soaked knife

                                                              of your own family's bosom.

Come let us be tolerant, though, let's all be politically correct now;

let churches in all Muslim lands disappear, and Christians as well;

leave them their patriarchy and let them have a Caliphate, allow

for ever more mosques to be built here, everyone else go to hell.

Let Shari'a come, and see how you like it, it's making inroads –

try on a burqa, ladies, a hijab – you'll love it, there's no compulsion,

so long as there's compliance, your life decided for you by wiser heads;

outwardly chaste, now everyone chaste: no holding hands, dears,
                                                                              that's only for men.

In light of Nigeria, Sudan and Mali, Somalia, Iraq, Iran and Syria –

I have but my craft to put down some lines, and what conclusion
                                                                            can I draw this hour:

only this, let everyone worship as they wish, formulate their faith
                                                                               without hysteria –

let Muslims have Islam in their own Muslim lands; and never
                                                                   give Islam political power!

 (Sunni vs. Shari'a: "My 'God is greater' than your God!")

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2013/03/show-me-islam.html
http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2011/05/cornerstoneof-your-faith.html
http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2013/07/that-this-beauty-shall-prevail.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv-kSbjr8EY

Brick of Possibilities

Religion reminds one of a brick.
You take a fine, sturdy, dumb brick.
Paint it in your best hand, make that
Christ or Cross, Krishna or Kabir,
inscribe the entire Qur'an or Torah there,
or Siri Guru Granth Sahib of the Sikhs –
literally, it's all been done.

And it's still a brick, but what a brick!
If you paint on it that which binds you
with your most sincerely cherished Love,
then please do it, I'll weave garlands with you
and we'll place them there together.

Knowing that a brick is a brick,
we'll contemplate together and open our hearts
to what's creatively imaged into that brick;
knowing that as what was painted came from within,
so is the very Love and Source being depicted –
and the intimate Knowledge of That – entirely within,
to be merely, albeit strongly, reminded, directed there again.

But shall this be the brick of Cain or of Cathedral?
The brick of Egypt or of the Bridge which bonds us
in mutual sovereignty?

If it's to whack another in the chops or break windows
or be more bric-à-brac to keep you off-track –
then we have a problem, then a brick really is just a brick.

Let each have their brick most suitable or exchange them –
you can't exchange the Self anyway, there is only one of That.
Yes, a brick's a brick – but oh, what a fine looking brick indeed!

My “Sura of the Cow” – or, When Did A Muslim

Islam gives us a radiant example

of how a religion – or ideology parading as one –

is like a cow:

The Sufi takes the udders in hand

and brings forth milk,

nourishing all;

the Muslim lifts the tail

and makes loud his proud claim

of authority.

If you plainly tell him

what that end of the cow only brings forth,

he will slit your throat and return to the mosque

with your blood on his hands.

The Sufi takes plain earth,

makes a garden of it,

feeds the world;

the Muslim sees earth,

finds it dirty and unclean, beneath him –

which doesn't mean his head is in the clouds

but up somewhere else.

The Sufi travels, seeks knowledge “unto China,”

befriends and appreciates everywhere

Christians, Jews, Sikhs, Parsis, Hindus, Buddhists.

The Muslim remains provincial though he travel,

knows everything better “unto China” –

and seeks to conquer.

(Driven much by fear and loathing,

obsessed with pork and pious clothing),

he knows his insatiable craving for recognition

will be gratified by dominating “the Other” into submission.

The Sufi has no axe to grind,

no policy or any baggage to sell;

the Sufi is no slave to mind

and wastes no thought on “heaven” or “hell.”

Sufis are not the mystics “of Islam,”

they are the Muslims' own worst nightmare –

if you really know God, they will stone or hang

you in the square!

When did a Muslim last speak to you of Love?

A Sufi speaks of nothing else but.

That This Beauty Shall Prevail

In the humble expression of this poor servant,

let this be known:

Better to fall on the battlefield

than choke on my steak in the War Room.

For it is my intention, in this my lifetime,

here-now and in reality, as in eternity,

that Sufism shall defeat Islam, prevail over and replace it entirely

with knowledge of God, with love of God.

That the Sovereignty of Love shall prevail over

and replace Muslim bigotry, racism, misogyny, hypocrisy.

That the prayers of the Great Ones and faith of the Heart

shall prevail over and replace Muslim arrogance, ignorance,

aggression, and its most primitive brutality.

That music and dance, creative literature, reason,

beauty in all its variations, shall prevail over and replace

the Muslim's native bent toward pronouncing death-fatwas,

toward pathologically underdeveloped, grossly self-conscious

phobias against any nonconformity, as against all freedom

of self-expression, against any notion of critical self-reflection,

of maturity in relation to the rest of the world:

over this shall prevail the nectar of Rumi, the fragrance of Hafiz;

the madness of Kabir and of Rabi'a shall prevail over and replace

a Muslim mentality which shuns pork but evidently not cannibalism.

That the creative openness of Sufism which embraces all faiths

and all paths toward God shall prevail over and replace this Islam

of domination, delusions of supremacy, of bludgeoning with Shari'a

every Muslim who is "other" and every culture which is not of itself.

Verily, the song and movement of Dervishes,

the Movement and the Message of Sufism through the Ages

cannot be annihilated, it is here in spite of historic repression,

and shall prevail over an Islam which never could appreciate

Sufis, Sikhs, Hindus, Christians, Jews, Buddhists - and murders them

century for century.

O Beloved Lord and Cherisher of the worlds:

let these words not prove empty, no -

let this love be active, this harmony penetrate through hearts:

that this beauty shall prevail.

Let it so Be as I, Sheikh Samuel Inayat-Chisti, have said,

who shall raise the banner of Love on that battlefield

in whichever form that comes,

and shall not fall, after so many lifetimes of this, but shall prevail.

Insha'llah.

Practicing in Farmington NM

It was a blind alley. Between the theatre and a few shops here and a few shops there in the San Juan Plaza ran an alley, with another blind one turning off at 90° behind the cinema. In Farmington you didn't walk around at night, so I was told - you ran the risk of being harrassed, or mugged, or raped, or whatever, or so one heard. Well, if anyone ever stepped out of their safe pickup trucks to even ventrure out alone, in their swaggering cowboy boots and beer-stained Stetsons, I'd have been surprised, and for my part walked the town's streets carefree and regularly regardless of the hour.

My humble abode was a far enough walk from my two jobs to encourage my use of this particularly blind alley for my morning or late evening prostrations and sitting practice. It was really ideal since no one in his right mind would think of going down there at night, pitch-dark as it was, and it served no useful purpose by day, I noticed - not even to piss or sneak a joint. It was indeed reserved for my use, clean and free of trash, only had to be swept once. It afforded me the privacy I needed, just outside the din and away from the periphery of passers-by. I could carry on with a light bit of yoga, with sitting meditation, with prayers and prostrations - even at certain odd times, the singing of a hymn or two. It was truly my cave away from home, where I had only to unroll the unobtrusive mat I kept with me, and voilà:  lights, incense, magic, roll 'em.

Now Farmington had lots of cowboys and truckers, it had Navajo ruins and ruined Navajo. It had whoopin' white teenagers and its share of Mexicans, but no Blacks. The only black fella I remember knowing there was Jerry, a guy I worked with in this Plaza, slinging hash and burgers in a 24-hour family restaurant called Hobo Joe's. I shuttled between two full-time jobs on the cook line, the other being Village Inn down the road a piece.  In my "cave" was the refuge I needed when time didn't permit a trip to my bare humble flat, and I could perform my devotions avoiding notice better than using some back lot or park.  It made perfect sense.

As my sitting meditation drew to a close late one evening, and I was due for work in about another twenty minutes a few doors away at Joe's, I was passingly aware of a commotion coming from the main alley pssageway.  This posed no bother in itself, as I felt very calm, my breath deep, and – I was somewhat interested in what all was afoot out there.  My instinct was in any case, to remain rock solid and at least outwardly unconcerned with whatever phenomena occurred.

No black youth in Farmington, I said, but right on the money here came five or six – sent from central casting, no doubt – quite seemingly looking for mischief.  I followed my instinct further for once, and learned a great lesson while having fun with these guys.  At age 26 I was about to release some baggage I'd been lugging around since my early school years all the way through junior high, high school and college.

My stillness and moreover the profound stillness of that "cave" if one can imagine it, so affected the lads they stood stalk still and one would honestly have thought they'd collided with a mama grizzly. That they even noticed or were the least concerned with this empty, uninviting, nearly pitch black blind alley instead of just glancing once if that, and running on looking for trouble, was really remarkable in itself.  They shouted, they threw pebbles.  I did not flinch, partly because I was in such a rich feeling of space at that moment and partly because I was preparing us all for a startling encounter.

They proceeded toward me one by one – with great caution.   What objects they carried, if any, I could only guess; my left profile was all they had, and I strayed not a hair's breadth.  This was not from fear but to create a learning experience for myself, using what was there, and for some likely benefit for all concerned; in other words, I was feeling friendly.  What was happening was occurring on three levels.

Deep in myself I was really enjoying this.  Outwardly I inadvertantly presented an ominous confrontation to these teenagers.  Nestled between these two perceptions were all the thoughts and emotions I was diligenty studying since the visitors actually caught me at so opportune a time.

What came up for me and how I approached it went as follows:  as they stood there grouped at the mouth of this "cave" shouting out "feelers," I was inspired in turn to remain as I was, resting on my heels, and relax deeply in contemplation that "me" and "them" were one – and on a gut level, or it wouldn't have been authentic, would not have been substantial for me.  I had to abstract and suspend the images of fear which arose full of subjective associations about former encounters with precisely similar groups of unruly teenagers, observing very carefully how my mind held the range of possible directions this story could easily take, and I became clear that it would go according to how I chose to "write" it.  This made me feel very generous in contrast with the intimidation I might have felt, and had felt when their clamor first struck my ear.

I turned my attention to this body, to the physical rather than the emotional, and all of that mental energy was not wasted or leaked out into the range of proximity I shared with them, where they could have picked up the germ of my paranoia (as that is how things work) and I did not stifle or sell out – all that mental energy, that simple concentration of thought, of prana, breath directed by will, was trained on my body, my physical form.  This was the decisive difference, and it beat me how I'd figured it out.  Training my thought entirely on my body, where I knew the whole drama was really taking place (not in that alley), and excluding all else, I focused on the sensory responses in my gut, the pounding in my chest (of which I alone was aware but was convinced it could be heard at a yard's length), and on the impressions which surfaced along with this.

When there is a physical pain or trauma to the body, the placement of a hand to the immediate area, along with a steady and calm mental current projected into the place (whereas the normal reaction is to recoil, tighten up and withdraw from the traumatized part precisely the urgently needed nourishment, acknowledgement or validation, or detached sanity) brings the body back into equilibrium as psychic resources are rallied to unify and to integrate.

Just so did I manage to hold and influence, by breathing into those areas, the network of reactive mechanisms set off by the encounter.  I grasped the immediacy of this circumstance:  that any empowerment of “numbers“ which they had, I'd given them; as I disempowered that notion – for my part – I disempowered it in them, and in the warmth I felt toward each individual, the recognition, even appreciation, we became a group which included me and them.   They felt no fear from me and nothing there for me to defend.

Indeed, the Buddha was in the palm of my hand.  Using a sense of timing to maximum enjoyment of this moment, I finally opened my eyes fully and turned to them, actually receiving them as guests, as though they'd walked into my living room rather than a bare concrete dark alley.   And they felt it.

The next ten minutes were spent discussing meditation, as that is what they caught me at.  Some remained standing, some crouched or sat.  I answered their various questions briefly, to the point, but with a relaxed humor, I felt they deserved my honest attention.  After all, why else was this totally unlikely event happening?  They even accompanied me "protectively" the couple doors further to my job, assuring me that this way nothing might befall me, as one never knows.   Had I not been due there for graveyard in a few mintues, we all would have been sitting together, that was fairly certain. "No," I'd answered one question they threw out in the alley-cave, "meditation isn't necessarily about leaving your body, it's often much more about being in one."

I believe this sort of turning a situation inside out is what the Sikhs call pratyahara.

I saw them on one occasion after that, the night they slashed a couple random bike tires which happened to be mine, that was it.