In the following days, while everyone in the lodge was making wild speculations, I spent my time alone in the garden, observing Mother Nature now cuddled under a heavy blanket of snow. Finally one day we heard the copper bell in the kitchen ring repeatedly, calling us all for an urgent meeting. Upon entering the main room in the khaneqah, I found everyone present there, novices and senior dervishes alike, sitting in a wide circle. And in the middle of the circle was the master, his lips neatly pursed, his eyes hazy.
After clearing his throat, he said, “Bismillah, you must be wondering why I summoned you here today. It is about this letter I received. It doesn’t matter where it came from. Suffice it to say that it drew my attention to a subject of great consequence.”
Baba Zaman paused briefly and stared out the window. He looked fatigued, thin, and pale, as if he had aged considerably during these past days. But when he continued to speak, an unexpected determination filled his voice.
“There lives an erudite scholar in a city not far away. He is good with words, but not so with metaphors, for he is no poet. He is loved, respected, and admired by thousands, but he himself is not a lover. Because of reasons far beyond me and you, someone from our lodge might have to go to meet him and be his comrade.”
My heart tightened in my chest. I exhaled slowly, very slowly. I couldn’t help remembering one of the rules. Loneliness and solitude are two different things. When you are lonely, it is easy to delude yourself into believing that you are on the right path. Solitude is better for us, as it means being alone without feeling lonely. But eventually it is best to find a person, the person who will be your mirror. Remember, only in another person’s heart can you truly see yourself and the presence of God within you.
The master continued. “I am here to ask if any one of you would like to volunteer for this spiritual journey. I could just as well have appointed someone, but this is not a task that could be performed out of duty. For it can be done only out of love and in the name of love.”
A young dervish asked permission to speak. “Who is this scholar, Master?”
“I can reveal his name only to the one who is willing to go.”
Upon hearing this, several dervishes raised their hands, excited and impatient. There were nine candidates. I joined them, becoming the tenth. Baba Zaman waved his hand, gesturing at us to wait for him to finish. “There is something else you should know before you make up your mind.”
With that, the master told us the journey was beset with great danger and unprecedented hardships, and there was no guarantee of coming back. Instantly all the hands went down. Except mine.
Baba Zaman looked me straight in the eye for the first time in a long while, and as soon as his gaze met mine, I understood he knew right from the start that I would be the only one to volunteer.
“Shams of Tabriz,” the master said slowly and dourly, as if my name left a heavy taste in his mouth. “I respect your determination, but you are not fully a member of this order. You are our guest.”
“I don’t see how that could be a problem,” I said.
The master was silent for a long, reflective moment. Then, unexpectedly, he came to his feet and concluded, “Let’s drop this subject for the time being. When spring comes, we will talk again.”
My heart rebelled. Though he knew that this mission was the sole reason I had come to Baghdad in the first place, Baba Zaman was robbing me of the chance to fulfill my destiny.
“Why, Master? Why wait when I am ready to go this very moment? Just tell me the name of the city and the scholar and I will be on my way!” I exclaimed.
But the master retorted in a cold, stern voice I wasn’t used to hearing from him, “There is nothing to discuss. The meeting is over.”
It was a long, harsh winter. The garden was frozen stiff, and so were my lips. For the next three months, I didn’t speak a word to anyone. Every day I took long walks in the countryside, hoping to see a tree in blossom. But after snow came more snow. Spring wasn’t anywhere on the horizon. Still, as low-spirited as I was outside, I remained grateful and hopeful inside, keeping in mind yet another rule. There was a rule that suited my mood: Whatever happens in your life, no matter how troubling things might seem, do not enter the neighborhood of despair. Even when all doors remain closed, God will open up a new path only for you. Be thankful! It is easy to be thankful when all is well. A Sufi is thankful not only for what he has been given but also for all that he has been denied.
Then finally one morning, I caught sight of a dazzling color, as delightful as a sweet song, sticking out from under the piles of snow. It was a bush clover covered with tiny lavender flowers. My heart filled with joy. As I walked back to the lodge, I ran into the ginger-haired novice and saluted him merrily. He was so used to seeing me fixed in a grumpy silence that his jaw dropped.
“Smile, boy!” I yelled. “Don’t you see spring is in the air?”
From that day on, the landscape changed with remarkable speed. The last snow melted, the trees budded, sparrows and wrens returned, and before long a faint spicy smell filled the air.
One morning we heard the copper bell ring again. I was the first to reach the main room this time. Once again we sat in a wide circle around the master and listened to him talk about this prominent scholar of Islam who knew everything, except the pits of love. Again no one else volunteered.
“I see that Shams is the only one to volunteer,” Baba Zaman announced, his voice rising in pitch and thinning out like the howl of the wind. “But I’ll wait for autumn before reaching a decision.”
I was stunned. I could not believe that this was happening. Here I was, ready to leave after three long months of postponement, and the master was telling me to put my journey off for another six months. With a plunging heart, I protested and complained and begged the master to tell me the name of the city and the scholar, but once again he refused.
This time, however, I knew it was going to be easier to wait, for there could be no further delays. Having endured from winter to spring, I could hold my fire from spring to autumn. Baba Zaman’s rejection had not disheartened me. If anything, it had raised my spirits, deepening my determination. Another rule said, Patience does not mean to passively endure. It means to be farsighted enough to trust the end result of a process. What does patience mean? It means to look at the thorn and see the rose, to look at the night and see the dawn. Impatience means to be so shortsighted as to not be able to see the outcome. The lovers of God never run out of patience, for they know that time is needed for the crescent moon to become full.
When in autumn the copper bell rang for the third time, I walked in unhurriedly and confidently, trusting that now things would finally be settled. The master looked paler and weaker than ever, as if he had no more energy left in him. Nevertheless, when he saw me raise my hand again, he neither looked away nor dropped the subject. Instead he gave me a determined nod.
“All right, Shams, there is no question you are the one who should embark on this journey. Tomorrow morning you’ll be on your way, inshallah.”
I kissed the master’s hand. At long last I was going to meet my companion.
Baba Zaman smiled at me warmly and thoughtfully, the way a father smiles at his only son before sending him to the battlefield. He then took out a sealed letter from inside his long khaki robe and, after handing it to me, silently left the room. Everyone else followed suit. Alone in the room, I broke the wax seal. Inside, there were two pieces of information written in graceful handwriting. The name of the city and the scholar. Apparently I was going to Konya to meet a certain Rumi.
My heart skipped a beat. I had never heard his name before. He could be a famous scholar for all I knew, but to me he was a complete mystery. One by one, I said the letters of his name: the powerful, lucid R; the velvety U; the intrepid and self-confident M; and the mysterious I, yet to be solved.
Bringing the letters together, I repeated his name over and over again until the word melted on my tongue with the s
weetness of candy and became as familiar as “water,” “bread,” or “milk.”
Ella
NORTHAMPTON, MAY 22, 2008
Beneath her white duvet, Ella swallowed past a sore throat, feeling worn out. Staying up late and drinking more than her usual limit several nights in a row had taken their toll. Still, she went downstairs to prepare breakfast and sat at the table with her twins and her husband, doing her best to look interested in their ongoing chatter about the coolest cars at school when all she wanted was to go back to bed and sleep.
All of a sudden, Orly turned to her mother and inquired, “Avi says our sister isn’t going to come home again. Is that true, Mom?” Her voice reeked of suspicion and accusation.
“Of course that’s not true. Your sister and I had a quarrel, as you know, but we love each other,” Ella said.
“Is it true that you gave Scott a call and asked him to dump Jeannette?” Avi asked with a grin, apparently enjoying the subject immensely.
Ella glanced at her husband with widened eyes, but David raised his eyebrows and flipped his hands open to indicate it wasn’t he who’d told them such a thing.
With practiced ease, Ella gave her voice the authoritarian tone she used when giving instructions to her children. “That’s not quite right. I did speak with Scott, but I did not tell him to dump your sister. All I said was not to rush into marriage.”
“I’m never going to get married,” Orly announced with certitude.
“Yeah, as if any guy would want to have you as his wife!” Avi snapped.
While she listened to her twins tease each other, for reasons she couldn’t understand Ella felt a nervous smile settle on her mouth. She suppressed it. But the smile was there, carved under her skin, as she walked them to the door and wished them all a nice day.
Only when she returned to her seat at the table could she get rid of the smile, and she did that simply by allowing herself to sulk. The kitchen looked as if it had been attacked by an army of rats. Half-eaten scrambled eggs, unfinished bowls of cereal, and dirty mugs cluttered the counter. Spirit was pacing the floor, eager to go out for a walk, but even after two cups of coffee and a multivitamin drink all Ella could manage was to take him out into the garden for a few minutes.
Back from the garden, Ella found the red light flashing on the answering machine. She pressed the button, and to her great delight Jeannette’s melodious voice filled the room.
“Mom, are you there …? Well, I guess not, or you would have picked up the phone.” She chuckled. “Okay, I was so angry at you I didn’t want to see your face again. But now I’m cool about it. I mean, what you did was wrong, that’s for sure. You should never have called Scott. But I can understand why you did it. Listen, you don’t need to protect me all the time. I’m not that premature baby who needed to be kept in an incubator anymore. Stop being overprotective! Just let me be, okay?”
Ella’s eyes filled with tears. The sight of Jeannette as a newborn baby flashed across her mind. Her skin utterly red and sad, her little fingers wrinkled and almost transparent, her lungs attached to a breathing tube—she was so unprepared for this world. Ella had spent many a sleepless night listening to her breathing just to make sure she was alive and would survive.
“Mom, one more thing,” added Jeannette, like an afterthought. “I love you.”
On that cue Ella let out a deep breath. Her mind shifted to Aziz’s e-mail. The wish tree had granted his wish. At least the first part of it. By giving her a call, Jeannette had done her part. Now it fell upon Ella to fulfill the rest. She called her daughter’s cell phone and found her on her way to the campus library.
“I got your message, honey. Listen, I’m so sorry. I want to apologize to you.”
There was a pause, brief but charged. “That’s all right, Mom.”
“No, it’s not. I should have shown more respect for your feelings.”
“Let’s leave it all behind, shall we?” said Jeannette, as though she were the mother and Ella her rebellious daughter.
“Yes, dear.”
Now Jeannette dropped her voice to a confidential mumble, as if afraid of what she was going to ask next. “What you said the other day kind of worried me. I mean, is that true? Are you really unhappy?”
“Of course not,” Ella answered, a bit too quickly. “I raised three beautiful children—how can I be unhappy?”
But Jeannette didn’t sound convinced. “I meant with Daddy.”
Ella didn’t know what to say, except the truth. “Your father and I have been married a long time. It’s difficult to remain in love after so many years.”
“I understand,” said Jeannette, and, oddly, Ella had the feeling she did.
After she hung up, Ella allowed herself to muse over love. She sat curled up in her rocking chair and wondered how she, hurt and cynical as she was, could ever experience love again. Love was for those looking for some rhyme or reason in this wildly spinning world. But what about those who had long given up the quest?
Before the day ended, she wrote back to Aziz.
Dear Aziz (if I may),
Thanks for your kind and heartwarming reply, which helped me through a family crisis. My daughter and I managed to leave behind that awful misunderstanding, as you politely called it.
You were right about one thing. I constantly vacillate between two opposites: aggressive and passive. Either I meddle too much in the lives of loved ones or I feel helpless in the face of their actions.
As for submission, I’ve never experienced the kind of peaceful surrender you wrote to me about. Honestly, I don’t think I have what it takes to be a Sufi. But I have to give you this: Amazingly, things between Jeannette and me turned out the way I wanted only after I stopped wanting and interfering. I owe you a big thank-you. I, too, would have prayed for you, but it has been such a long time since I last knocked on God’s door that I’m not sure if He still lives in the same place. Oops, did I speak like the innkeeper in your story? Don’t worry, I’m not that bitter. Not yet. Not yet.
Your friend in Northampton,
Ella
The Letter
FROM BAGHDAD TO KAYSERI, SEPTEMBER 29, 1243
Bismillahirrahmanirrahim,
Brother Seyyid Burhaneddin,
Peace be on you, and the mercy of God, and His blessings.
I was very pleased to receive your letter and learn that you were as devoted to the path of love as ever. And yet your letter also put me in a quandary. For as soon as I learned you were looking for the companion of Rumi, I knew who you were talking about. What I did not know was what to do next.
You see, there was under my roof a wandering dervish, Shams of Tabriz, who fit your description to the letter. Shams believed he had a special mission in this world, and to this end he wished to enlighten an enlightened person. Looking for neither disciples nor students, he asked God for a companion. Once he said to me that he hadn’t come for the common people. He had come to put his finger on the pulse of those who guided the world to the Truth.
When I received your letter, I knew that Shams was destined to meet Rumi. Still, to make sure every one of my dervishes got an equal chance, I gathered them and without going into any details told them about a scholar whose heart had to be opened. Though there were a few candidates, Shams was the only one who persevered even after hearing about the dangers of the task. That was back in winter. The same scene was repeated in spring and then in autumn.
You might be wondering why I waited this long. I have thought hard about this and frankly can offer only one reason: I have grown fond of Shams. It pained me to know that I was sending him on a dangerous journey.
You see, Shams is not an easy person. As long as he lived a nomadic life, he could manage it pretty well, but if he stays in a town and mingles with the townspeople, I am afraid he will ruffle some feathers. This is why I tried to postpone his journey as long as I could.
The evening before Shams left, we took a long walk around the mulberry trees where I grow
silkworms. Old habits rarely die. Painfully delicate and surprisingly strong, silk resembles love. I told Shams how the silkworms destroy the silk they produce as they emerge from their cocoons. This is why the farmers have to make a choice between the silk and the silkworm. More often than not, they kill the silkworm while it is inside the cocoon in order to pull the silk out intact. It takes the lives of hundreds of silkworms to produce one silk scarf.
The evening was now coming to an end. A chilly wind blew in our direction, and I shivered. In my old age, I get cold easily, but I knew it wasn’t my age that caused this shiver. It was because I realized this was the last time Shams would stand in my garden. We will not see each other again. Not in this world. He, too, must have sensed it, for there was now sorrow in his eyes.
This morning at the crack of dawn, he came to kiss my hand and ask for my blessings. I was surprised to see he had cut his long dark hair and shaved his beard, but he didn’t offer an explanation and I didn’t ask. Before he left, he said his part in this story resembled the silkworm. He and Rumi would retreat into a cocoon of Divine Love, only to come out when the time was ripe and the precious silk woven. But eventually, for the silk to survive, the silkworm had to die.
Thus he left for Konya. May God protect him. I know I have done the right thing, and so have you, but my heart is heavy with sadness, and I already miss the most unusual and unruly dervish my lodge has ever welcomed.
In the end we all belong to God, and to Him we shall return.
May God suffice you,
Baba Zaman
The Novice
BAGHDAD, SEPTEMBER 29, 1243
Being a dervish is not easy. Everybody warned me so. What they forgot to mention was that I had to go through hell in order to become one. Ever since I came here, I have been working like a dog. Most days I work so hard that when I finally lie on my sleeping mat, I can’t sleep because of the pain in my muscles and the throbbing in my feet. I wonder if anybody notices how awfully I am being treated. Even if they do, they surely show no signs of empathy. And the harder I strive, the worse it seems to get. They don’t even know my name. “The new novice,” they call me, and behind my back they whisper, “that ginger-haired ignoramus.”