Tears Of Love

Sufism says, “God is your lover, not your jailer“ - and means it and practices it. Islam has proven time and again to prefer it the other way around. Religion is in every other case I know of - more or less, yet quite frankly when you look at its core: about freedom, not dictatorship. The Muslim mentality tends strongly toward subjection to the latter, coupled most unfortunately with that peculiar combination of projected victim-status with delusions-of-supremacy, and with subterfuge to boot, such as was exceptionally witnessed in the Germany of the '30s and '40s. It pains me most severely to even put this into so many words, but it has to be done, come what may. Is there another religion I haven't heard of in our generation, in this century, where you can be murdered with impunity for merely leaving it, or converting to another, or satirizing or exercising critical analysis of it?

The darkness of so much Church history had entirely inhibited my early life from trustingly approaching the New Testament. The light of Swamis had made it not only approachable but readable, sparklingly clear. I cannot open the Gospels or the Epistles without being choked with tears of rejoicing at the clarity of what I see presented. How that escapes others I no longer know, I guess they were out when the Swamis came by. When Suras from the Qur'an were recited during ceremonies of those lovers of God and of Hu-man-kind, the same tug at my chest occurred, the same tears flowed, the mind became also still. I guess the Sufis know something Muslims don't – it causes them to sing, it moves them to turn about, it makes them wild with a fiercely fine light in their eyes, their hearts soaked with love, not dried up with clichéed theo-ideology.

Tears of Love

There is a movement, and a rest -
something like a cough suppressed,
a wringing, wrenching sensation in my chest.

Old tissue proves all too worn,
a breaking through this, and it's torn,
breaking forth from the heart, and born

like a dervish in the Sema room -
this itself so like a rose in bloom -
opening into the Turn, consumed

by that which words cannot express:
but tears which on these cheeks so press
like water in the wilderness

do Love justice as no other.
Sovereign love for one another
draws warmest smile from that Divine Mother.

Sema at Fort Dix, a Rendezvous With Rumi

Ft. Dix NJ,  Feb. 1986.

We're Companies Alpha, Bravo, Charlie.  I'm with Bravo.  We're all on "bivouac" training.  That means, we're out in the woods somewhere, freezing our asses off, combining my own rain poncho with that of my buddy's (Vince N., Civil War freak), to make a tent for two.  Our M-16s and "combat gear" remain in our tents as we go to chow.  One company after the other.  We're up.  Alpha and Charlie are finished, or at least Alpha, I don't know where Charlie is - probably in the trees sniping - a little Vietnam humor there.

Some other dude and I show up a tad late for instructions of how this buffet works:  There's a big concrete slab outside the Drills' tent (a real tent) - on this are a couple of long tables set up with grub.  Sorry - chow, grub went out with WWII.  At the end of the chow line are 3 big water drums set up, one with soapy water, one with plain hot water, one with...whatever.  And that was the rub:  We'd missed out on the instructions and weren't clear as to which drum came first when you dipped your chow-smeared mess kit and utensils to wash them clean.  And like a day out of my 12 years of Sufi training, there were consequences for missing out on instructions and not being clear about the micky-mouse rules.

Out came a big Alpha Drill Sgt. with dark hair and glasses (we spec-wearers all carried the field-approved "rape-prevention-glasses," or RPGs, which were like the black horn-rimmed '50s model - later at Monterey's Defense Language Institute with my David Niven-regulation moustache the glasses made me look like Groucho Marx in "You Bet Your Life", or like the glasses-nose-moustache you buy at gag shops...which we did there at DLI when I became captain of our running team and I led with my own face, 16 other guys carrying the gag number, so that you had 17 "Sams" running the two mile race for Bravo Company at DLI...we always came in second, but as that was the start of a new gag each month we had more fun than the other companies and everyone loved it - but I digress and I didn't want to do that.  Another story, so back to ours: Ft. Dix, the woods)... Out came this Drill from the other company, and barked at me and this other guy for using the water drums in the wrong order: Penalty!

For the penalty to come across I have to explain:  of the basic principles of a soldier, one of the first we learned, after the Greek one about never leaving your buddy's behind, was never to leave your post (for example when on guard duty) until your relief comes or you are dismissed.  This I could understand and relate to - after all, how many years of Sufi training... So this in itself was for me, a no-brainer.  And in context here, it recalled for me the term "Post" in regard to the Mevlevi Sema, where the dervishes turn in reference to the Sheikh in the Sema functioning as Post.

"Hey, you!  Yeah, you!  The dumb one with the glasses."  That was certainly me he had in mind.  We both had to go back and get our respective combat gear (as if for guard duty): flak vest, M-16, Kevlar-helmet, combat belt, the whole 9 yds. - and return pronto to "guard this drum" as if to keep others from falling into the same mistake, which was pretty humorous as we were the last two anyway.  But alright, thought I, I'll bite - I'll play your silly little game.  You have me for 8 weeks.  So I returned, the other guy didn't.  Drill wasn't even around anymore to check.  I just followed instructions, and a little something told me to treat my Drills as "Sheikhs".........see what all those years do to you?  So the following actually occurred, exactly as it reads - my thoughts, what was occurring, the timing, the effect on me.

In full gear, I turn my "guard duty of this stupid drum" into a circumambulation around my Post, or around that imagined Sheikh sitting on the red sheep skin.  I am entering dervish-heaven.  I "march" around this drum in a sema rhythm, my mind is absorbed in zikr and Mevlevi music and overtones.  I don't know anyway how long the jerk's going to make me do this stunt so I'm resigned utterly to possible hours of it.  (The total running time of this unique meeting of dimensions if not universes, was indeed a solid half hour.)

As I'm doing this a truly extraordinary event takes place about 50 yds. distance or more.  These "grunts," these hormone-stupid numb-nut kids in Charlie Company are about to add their own, albeit profane - and that's the Rumi-inspired beauty of it! - Hadhrat (Sufi ceremony of zikr, or remembrance through repetition), and all for the benefit of my psychotic fantasy that we are maybe not in Ft. Dix after all, but Istanbul or Konya.

Someone among them had a birthday and received a cake from home.  Nice.  One of their Drills, a short guy with eyes right out of Doonesbury, was about to pass out to each of them a slice of cake.  That meant, they all had to line up in an orderly fashion, in formation, and receive that slice from his hand.  In their very grunt-mentality they created a loud festive atmosphere.  Now think for a moment of what it sounds like when dervishes recite zikr in an overwhelming rhythm and some ecstatic God-intoxicated idiot among them shouts "ya Allah" or such out of turn, and yet in no way disturbing the procedure but on the contrary embellishing it with........mood.

 This was neither being imagined, nor hallucinated!  As I did my "Turn" they began to chant, yes, chant in one united husky college-fraternity voice:  "Piece of cake!  Piece of cake!  Piece of cake!"  Just like one might have heard "Allah-hayy, da'im-hu!" or similar.  This was already sending me into fits of quiet ecstasy.  Their Drill "became" a Sheikh handing out prasad, plain and simple.  Period.  But that's not all.  In the midst of this chant, one or another would suddenly shout out above the other voices, "fuckin'-ay!...........fuckin'-ay!"  This went on.  And on.  I was beside myself with joy and ecstasy.  It was purely God-inspired, I felt so un-alone and un-forsaken, I wished it would continue without end.

Then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.  They had their cake....yes, and ate it.  And at that exact moment, as I was sort of coming down from my peak, the big Drill who'd put me there came out of his tent, he'd forgotten the whole affair, told me to quit and go, asked me where the other guy was, I told him he never returned, he shook his head and that was it.  I could have apparently ducked out as well, but didn't, and received this very off-color blessing form the Sufis in the Unseen.  All directed and arranged by that clever sonofagun we call God, and it should be no wonder that I am in Love.

For Mevlana (I)

(March 1977, Boulder)

 

The lover knows why he is born:
When pierced for blood
   milk flows from the heart of the lover,
   nourishing even the one who adminsters the wound;
      that one is blessed by the lover,
      who now holds the dagger
         firmly rooted in his heart,
         withdrawing it and replanting it

            again and again,

        as a constant reminder.
The lover carries no fear
   for he carries his manhood in his heart.
       Therefore he is tender like a petal,
           while protected like the pomegranite.
He is veiled and allows himself to be unveiled
   when in the presence of the beloved.
       The lover may be shattered


           over and over again,


       but his pieces will always fall scattered
   to the soil to regenerate as an army of lovers!
Only the lover knows the meaning of constancy.

                 Love has made a fanatic of me;
                 and to the Source of all this
                 I gladly offer my head
                 again and again.
                 Pain rends the veil
                 which hid the cup of ecstasy.


                 Friend, cover yourself
                 with the mantle of secrecy
                 and go naked into the night.
                 There you will find a brilliance
                 which no eye can perceive.

Without the cup of sobriety,
how shall I contain this ecstasy?


It runs over the edge anyway,
and spills on the one whose lips
parted to taste.

                 Beloved Mother, teach me
                 the secret of the spring rain,
                 how it nourishes the earth
                 and makes all life fertile with its weeping.

My heart is with the Brotherhood,
the lovers whose eyes are brilliant with desire
   to serve the One who made them feel this.


   Their feet never leave the ground
   until the Turn is complete.
Their pride is in the One who causes this Turning,
their dignity is testimony of their surrender.