Oct 31 | The Song of the Reed, Part 4 (Letters from the Coast)

This is the final entry in a four-parter on attending RumiFest, my retreat for the year.

When I woke up again, I saw Raqib sleeping on the bench across the hall from me.

I sketched him, entranced by how safe and warm he looked.

Some time later, his daughter Mila came to sit by him, and he put his head right into her lap.

I had never, ever seen anything like that before.

I sketched it as well, and wrote, “This is how we should be with our heavenly Father Allah.”

The (very rough) sketch of Raqib and Mila

She told me later that their relationship had blossomed into something incredible over many years. I felt a piercing lance within my soul. I couldn’t imagine having that kind of relationship with my father.

But oh, I wanted to.

I turned a bit more later, and this time I entered into another state, my eyes nearly closed all the way, feeling straight up and down as a dervish should.

Another dervish from Vancouver had told me the night before she had a dream of me walking hand in hand with God. It felt possible as I turned.

After another lie-down, there was to be a zhikr where all were invited, but women would lead. It was incredible. I wrote the following in my journal:

It was awesome, women singing and sharing [the words of] Rabi’a, then just straight up dancing and shouting and turning [in a long row] like a snake to look at each face and seeing God there and seeing two friends just kiss on the lips like it ain’t no thing and then standing in a big circle singing, “Ya shakur Allah, ya Hamid, la illaha illahah hu…” and weeping because why the fuck can’t we just do this, it would solve every problem.

Later, listening to an incredible sung performance of poetry by a woman named Jessica, I wrote,

The hours have melted into each other… I keep drifting off where I sit. In fairness, the singer is divine and there are sleeping dervishes scattered about the room.

It’s been almost twenty-four hours and now everyone on the floor is turning.

The continuous sema ended soon afterward. We broke for dinner — an Indian feast! — and then I was driven by my host, Khalid, to his home in Mukilteo.

I entered and discovered Efendi, the Mevlevi sheikh, sitting at the dining room table with a bowl of ice cream — yet another strangely beautiful sight.

Khalid asked if I wanted some too. I said yes, and he handed me a bowl, but as his back was turned, Efendi separated a chunk of ice cream with his spoon and dumped it into my bowl.

Khalid turned around, the tub in his hand, saw my bowl, and burst out laughing.

It felt rather theological.

I stayed up for a short while with Efendi, again feeling awed in the presence of such a gentle soul. He said his ex-wife had played harp, and so he could tell that I was good at it.

I slept long and deep, and awoke feeling fresh and renewed. Breakfast was leftover saag paneer folded into an omelette and assam tea. We were joined by Habib, another young man who was hosted by Khalid and his wife Kim.

When Efendi joined us, Khalid expressed deep gratitude for actions he had taken to include dervishes of other orders, which would not normally be done.

Efendi, looking over Khalid’s shoulder, read out words printed on a tea towel: “Love more, worry less.”

We all laughed.

We returned to the hall for a formal Mevlevi sema.

Raqib caught me by the kitchen and told me that he had deeply appreciated my music at the sema. Then he said, distractedly, “I hope there’s coffee.”

“I’ll find out,” I said, and rushed off to make some.

It was the first time I’d made coffee in a coffee maker in about a decade. When it was done, I looked at it and thought it was nowhere near dark enough, more like tea, and panicked slightly.

When I finally gave him a cup, though, he looked at me like I was handing him a bar of gold.

Bad or not, he chugged it.

The sema was wonderful, as usual, the dervishes whirling endlessly in their white outfits. I almost felt like I had come full circle.

I made arrangements to go back with Seemi, which meant I could stay for a Turkish meal a few doors down. We all laughed as dervishes kept joining us and we had to re-arrange the seating many, many times. Seemi told me there was a joke about how many dervishes could fit into a walnut, and that the agreed-upon number was forty.

I didn’t figure out why it was that many.

After dinner, which was glorious as neither Seemi nor I had had lunch, we decided to go listen to Jessica, the singer from the day before, perform in a Taoist hall.

I’m glad I stayed for it, even though it meant I got back at about 1am. I had spent the whole weekend feeling delighted but like a visitor into a strange and wonderful new land. Jessica’s performance was largely chanted, songs composed and traditional from a variety of cultures.

Imagine my delight when I heard words from the Carmina Gadelica.

She invited feedback from the audience at the end.

I put my hands over my heart. “You’ve told me that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

She grinned broadly.

Before we left, Seemi held her and sang a song just for her. I watched tearfully as an almost solid wall of love passed between brown face and white face.

Seemi drove me home. She kept singing songs, and I sang with her. I told her my story of faith.

My journey has only just begun.

Sherif Baba will be coming to see us at the end of the month.

I can’t wait to see him again.

In the meantime, I’m turning at night as an evening prayer practice.

Inside my heart, I think I’m still turning.

La ilaha illallah.

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