The Tadte o f H idden Th ings

Sara Sviri
4-:-
Imaged on the Sufi Path

Sara Sviri
s?

THE GOLDEN SUFI CENTER

I81>P.

mi

First published in the United States in 1997 by

The Golden Sufi Center
P.O. Box 428, Inverness, California 94937

© 1997 by The Golden Sufi Center

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without
permission in writing from the Publisher

Cover Photo of Baha’ ad-Din Naqshband’s tomb in Bukara,

Uzbekistan.
Printed and bound by Thomson-Shore, Inc.
using recycled paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data,

Sara Sviri
The Taste of Hidden Things: Images of the Sufi Path
1. Spiritual life
2. Psychology
3. Sufism

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-078735

ISBN 0-9634574-8-9
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 Contentd

Chapter 1 The Niche of Light

1
Chapter 2 Effort and the Effortless Path
23
Chapter 3 Dreams and Destiny
46
Chapter 4 Where the Two Seas Meet: The Story of Khidr
77
Chapter 5 Eros and the Mystical Quest
102
Chapter 6 Dhikr
124
Chapter 7 The Color of Water
145
Chapter 8 Sufi Ethics and Etiquette
164
Chapter 9 “It Is the Function Which Creates the Organ”
187

222 Notes
241 Bibliography
250 Index
270 Acknowledgments
 Throughout this book, in an effort to maintain continu­
ity and simplicity of text, God, the Great Beloved, is
referred to as He. Of course, the Absolute Truth is neither
masculine nor feminine. As much as It has a divine mascu­
line side, so It has an awe-inspiring feminine aspect.
 This book is an attempt to describe a mystical system.
It is not an historical account, nor is it a comparative study.
I would like to think of it as a portrait of a system, a living
system, as I have come to know it over many years. Like
human beings, mystical systems, too, have many aspects,
many faces, and appear to the beholder through his or her
own eyes. From this angle the book presents a personal
view, an intimate account of the Sufi path. And yet in
writing it my wish has been to let the path speak for itself—
in poetic images, in dreams, in dicta, in anecdotes—
highlighting its past as well as its present. It has been my
wish to share with the reader the conviction that now as
centuries ago, the mystical path carves its hidden routes
within the hearts of men and women who, at certain
moments in their lives, awake to an insatiable hunger, to an
irreconcilable nostalgia for something which they cannot
clearly define, and which is nevertheless powerful enough,
when this awakening becomes an inner commitment, to
shape their destiny.
Sara Sviri
London, September 1996
 The Niche o fLight

My image dwells in the heart of the King.

Rumi1

There is a special pleasure for a person to look

and see himself in the mirror.
Ismail Hakki Bursevi1

<^ h e central image of the Sufi path is the human heart.

Sufi teaching, in all its variegation, revolves around the
heart as that organ in which the Divine mysteries are
hidden, and where the mystical journey takes place. The
heart lies at the very center of the mystical quest.
A spiritual journey often starts when a person dimly
senses that there are areas in his, or her, psyche which are
unreachable through the ordinary vehicles of perception.
A person becomes dimly aware that he seldom fully lives,
that his life is made up of split-off, unconnected moments
which seem to have no center. The quest is a quest for a
center from which everything emerges and to which every­
thing returns.
Sufis believe that there is a substance in the heart
which does not belong to the world of forms and appear­
ances, but to the Formless, to the Oneness of Being. Yet
this substance resides within the complexity of the human
organism, with its physical, emotional, and mental compo­
nents. Life is governed by an ever-increasing multiplicity
and complexity. It is shaped by an ever-expanding process
of aggregation and fragmentation, adding up and sorting
out. We find our place in the world through the fact that we
are distinct and separate beings. So how can Oneness be
experienced?
To designate the antithetic states of fragmentation and
centeredness, Sufis have coined terms. By the term tafriqa,
which means dispersion and segmentation, they have des­
ignated the fractured, fragmented, and uncentered parts of
existence; by the term ja m ‘—aggregating, bringing to­
gether—they have designated the states of centeredness
and oneness; and by the term sirr—secret—they have
designated the hidden point at the core of the human heart
where all dispersed things come together. Al-Qushayri, an
11th-century master from the town of Nishapur, explains
that tafriqa pertains even to intimate, one-to-one acts of
worship, when the center of worship is man rather than
God. He says:

When man speaks to God in the language of

intimate discourse (najwa) asking, or calling, or
praising, or giving thanks—he is in the place of
tafriqa; and when he listens with his innermost (sirr)
to what his Lord discloses to him, or to what He
shows him in his heart, he is witnessing [in the state
of] jam ‘.3

Oneness is not a theological concept, and despite

countless attempts it cannot be defined by creeds or philo­
sophic formulae. But it can be experienced; it can some­
times be glimpsed and tasted as a genuine state of being.
These glimpses show that the sought-for center is not out
there, but within the depth of the seeker himself.
What is the heart? It is an enigmatic and mysterious
organ. In one sense, Sufis say, the heart is nothing but a
hollow piece of flesh within the cavity of the chest. But at
the same time it is also the treasure-house of divine mys­
teries. It is in the heart of hearts, in the innermost chamber
of this spherical organ, whose center is an ineffable point
that cannot be pinned down, that the human and the Divine
commune and embrace. To this enclosed and guarded
shrine no creature is allowed access, not even an angel. It
is guarded zealously by the Divine Beloved, because this
place belongs to Him alone.
One of the earliest mystics in the Sufi tradition who
pondered and taught the mystical function of the heart is
the 9th-century mystic Abu ‘Abdallah Muhammad ibn
‘All al-Haklm at-Tirmidhl, from Tirmidh, on the shores of
the Oxus river in Central Asia. Unlike most contemporary
Sufis, Abu ‘Abdallah did not belong to a group or a circle.
He did not have a flesh-and-blood teacher. Nevertheless,
he was held in great esteem by fellow mystics. In his
autobiographical sketches (from which I quote in the third
chapter), he relates how people in his town would dream
about him and would seek him out as a spiritual guide. In
his voluminous corpus of writing there are letters to seek­
ers, letters which reflect his spiritual authority and contain
valuable information about the early history of Sufism.
Masters of later generations—for example, Ibn al-‘Arabi
and Baha’ ad-Din Naqshband—paid homage to him and
acknowledged the inspiration that his teaching and spiri­
tual energy gave to them. Abu ‘Abdallah is no doubt one of
the main contributes to Sufi psychology, to that mystical
science which points not to the ego or the psyche (nafs) as
the focus of the inner work, but to the heart. Here are some
passages from his vast opus in which he explains the
phenomenon of the human heart and its mystical relation­
ship with God:

The heart is the king and the limbs are its ser­
vants; each limb functions according to the will and
the command of the heart, yet the will of the heart
comes from the will of God. God nominates none
over the heart but Himself; none can see what the
heart contains. God alone places in the heart and
removes from the heart whatever He wills__
The heart is the source and the abode of God’s
Unity and the object of God’s observation.... God
watches over the heart for it is the container of His
most precious jewels and the treasure trove of the
true Knowledge of Him.4
-:'z>

Satan (Iblls) flows within the human body

through the blood-stream__When God wills a per­
son to be His beloved, or friend, or prophet, He
plucks out the arteries from the inner recesses of the
heart, so that Satan will have no access there.5

God made this hollow piece of flesh into His

treasure trove. He has given it eyes to see the invis­
ible and ears to hear His words, and He has fixed in
it a window to the chest, for the heart is a lamp
whose rays of light shine in the chest. Thus God has
made this hollow piece of flesh into the source of
true knowledge, which is supreme wisdom and mys­
tical understanding. God placed within the heart the
knowledge of Him, and the heart became lit by God’s
Light. Then God spoke in a parable and said: “Com­
pared to a niche wherein is a lamp” (Qur’an 24:35).
The lamp of the Divine Light is in the hearts of
those who believe in the Oneness of God.6
 Apart from the remembrance of God, anything that
takes place in the chest creates a shadow which falls in
front of the heart's eyes
When things take place in the chest, namely, if one is
distracted by and occupied with thoughts and desires,
the shadows which they produce create a smoke
screen in front of the heart’s eyes. The light then
becomes concealed in the depth of the heart, and the
chest becomes like a house whose lamp is covered. Such
a man is veiled from God.7

By means of the Divine Lights the heart

becomes polished so that it shines like a polished
mirror. When it becomes a mirror one can see in it the
reflection of all existing things and the reflection of the
Kingdom of God as they really are. When one sees
the Glory and Majesty of God in His Realm, then all
the lights become one light and the chest is filled with
this shining light. This is like a man who observes his
reflection in a mirror and sees in it at the same time
the reflection of everything in front and behind him.
Now when a ray of sun hits the mirror, the whole
house becomes flooded with light from the meeting of
these two lights: the light of the sun-ray and the light of
the mirror. Similarly, when the heart is polished and
shining, it beholds the Realm of Divine Glory and
the Divine Glory becomes revealed to it.®

In a treatise entitled The Difference Between the Chest,

the Heart, the Inner Heart, and the Kernel o f the Heart, a
treatise attributed—perhaps erroneously—to al-Hakim at-
Tirmidhi, the author explains the concentric structure of
the heart. The heart is conceived of as a multi-layered
spherical organ, each layer finer than the outer one that
envelops it. Each layer has a function which is meant to
serve the heart as a whole. The well-being of any layer
depends on the well-being of all other layers. Ultimately,
all layers are seen as protective sheaths for that which lies
at the center. That which lies at the center is the source of
light, wisdom, and mystical knowledge. As the eye can't
see without the light which resides in its center, neither can
the heart’s eye. But for the eye to see, light is not enough.
It should also be clear from infection and illness. All its
parts should be kept clean and intact. So it is with the
heart’s eye. To illustrate the multiple structure of the heart,
the protective function of each layer, and the need to keep
all of them intact, the author suggests several analogies.
Here are a few abridged passages culled from this treatise:

The name “heart” is a general name which re­

fers to its inner stations. There are spaces within and
without that [which is commonly known as] heart.
[In this respect] the name “heart” resembles the
name “eye,” since “eye” refers to all that is included
within the rim of the eyelids: the white of the eye,
the black [of the eye], the pupil, and the light in the
pupil. What is external is the container for the inner
which lies within it.
The name “house” too is general, since it refers
to all that is included within its walls: the rooms, the
hall, the courtyard surrounding the rooms, the
bedchamber, the store-house. Each of these spaces
has a specific function which sets it apart from the
rest.
The name “almond” too is general. It includes
the outer shell which covers the husk, the kernel,
and the oil within the kernel.

The author then comments on the esoteric aspect of

this layered physiology:
 Know that the higher the knowledge, the more
concealed, the more guarded, the more hidden it is.
Laymen, however, use the name “heart” to refer to
all its inner spaces.

Then the analogies between the heart, the eye, the

house, the holy city of Mecca, the lamp, and the almond are
drawn in more detail. Here are some of the statements the
author makes:

The chest in relation to the heart is like the

white of the eye in relation to the eye, or like the
courtyard in relation to the house, or like the con­
tainer of water in relation to the lamp, or like the
outer shell in relation to the almond.
The chest (padr) is the space into which desires
and inclinations enter. This is the domain of the
lower self (nafs).
The heart (qalb) lies within the chest, and is like
the black of the eye within the white of the eye. This
is the abode of the light of faith, humility, piety,
love, fear, hope, and content.
The inner heart (fu'ad) is the third station. It is
like the pupil of the eye within the black of the eye,
or like the kernel within the almond. Th&fu'ad is
the place of Divine knowledge and visions. The
inner heart is in the center of the heart, just as the
heart is in the center of the chest, like a pearl within
the shell.
The kernel of the heart (lubb) is like the light of
seeing within the eye, like the light of the lamp
within the wick, like the oil concealed within the
kernel of the almond.
The external parts protect and cover that which
lies within them.
Beyond these there are ever-finer stations, loftier
spaces, and more exquisite subtleties. The root of all
of them is the light of Unity.9
 The concentric view of the heart, as will become
highlighted in chapter six, is all-important in Sufi mystical
psychology. Terms, however, may vary from one author to
another. The inner kernel of the heart in the above descrip­
tion is named iubb, which strongly implies a concealed
inner part, or the marrow, the essence of an object. Some­
times this innermost point in the center of the heart is
named habb, which literally means “seed.”10 More often
it’s known as sirr, secret.
This aspect of mystery and secret which lies at the
center of man's relationship with God is poetically illus­
trated in The Conference o f the Birds. The 13th-century
poet ‘Attar uses a parable to allude to the closeness which
binds man’s heart and God, a closeness so intimate that it
cannot be interfered with or shared by anyone except these
two. He has the hoopoe, the birds’ guide, explain to the
birds their special kinship with the Symorgh, their hidden
king, in search of whom they are setting off, by telling them
of the formidable king Mahmud’s love for his slave Ayaz.
When the slave is sick and ailing, even the fastest, most
motivated messenger can’t surpass the speed with which
the king arrives at his bedside. The messenger, who had
been ordered to hurry to Ayaz, galloped “like wind” only
to find the king already there, by the bedside. “You could
not know / The hidden ways by which we lovers go,” the
king tells him:

... “You could not know

The hidden ways by which we lovers go;
I cannot bear my life without his face,
And every minute 1 am in this place.
The passing world outside is unaware
Of mysteries Ayaz and Mahmoud share;
 In public I ask after him, although
Behind the veil of secrecy I know
Whatever news my messengers could give;
I hide my secret and in secret live.” 11

The hidden kinship between God and man, and the way
in which it’s played out in the depth of the heart, are taken
further by al-Hakim at-Tirmidhl. He writes;

God placed the heart within the cavity of the

human chest, and it belongs to God alone. No one can
have any claim on it. God holds the heart be tween
two o f His fingers, and n o one is allowed access to
it: n ot an angel, nor a prophet, nor any created
being in the whole of creation. God alone turns it as
He wishes. Within the heart God placed the
Knowledge of Him and He lit it with the Divine Light
............ By this light He gave the heart eyes to see.12

In the Arabic language “heart,” qalb, and “turning,”

taqallub, derive from the same linguistic root. Thus the
image of God holding the human heart between two of His
fingers, and turning it whichever way He wishes,
illustrates the most intrinsic property of the heart: its
submissiveness to God’s will. The very nature of the heart
is to be held in God’s grasp and be turned around
without resistance.
This image also alludes to the Sufi way of
understanding the conjunction of surrender and freedom
(hurriyya): when the heart surrenders willingly to the
Divine hold, it becomes free of the manipulation of the
lower self, the
nafs. Paradoxically, such freedom is reflected by a letting
go of choices, a state which Sufis have termed just so: “to
relinquish making choices”— tark al-ikhtlyar,13Abu ‘Abd
ar-Rahman as-Sulami, an influential 1 lth-century master
from Nishapur, writes, “Man does not become a true
servant ('abd) until he becomes free (hurr) from all save
God."14
When the will of the heart becomes one with the will
of God, then whatever God chooses for the seeker the heart
accepts with no resistance, for “Whichever way you turn,
there is the face of God” (Qur’an, 2:115).
For theologians, philosophers, and politicians, the is­
sue of free will and free choice is all important; they
endlessly debate the multifaceted, especially the moral,
ramifications of the acquisition or the loss of free choice.
For mystics, on the other hand, the intrinsic issue which the
journey confronts them with is how to be relieved of the
willful, choice-making nafs, how to relinquish the right to
own a free will in the face of the transcendent will of God.
They come to realize that for the heart, which is the place
of mystical surrender, there is only one wish: to be utterly
receptive to the Divine will, to simply turn in whichever
way it’s made to turn.
The image of a heart being turned between two fingers
of God reflects the vicissitudes of the heart in its quest for
Oneness: when turned this way or that, it is made to
undergo many different states (ahwal) and stages
(maqamaty, it is tossed and turned relentlessly; it is swung
between feelings, moods, impasses in constant crests and
troughs: “And our hearts are ever restless until they find
their rest in Thee.”
 Ibn a l-‘ArabI, an Andalusian mystic who died in
Damascus in 1240, boldly and unconventionally sees this
fluctuation, the taqallub of the qalb, as a reflection or
incarnation of the Divine attribute of love, which is defined
by a never-resting, creative dynamism. He says:

The goblet of love is the lover's heart, not his

reason or his sense perception. For the heart fluctu­
ates from state to state, just as God—who is the
Beloved—is “Each day upon some task” (55:29). So
the lover undergoes constant variation in the object
of his love in keeping with the constant variation of
the Beloved in His acts__
Love has many diverse and mutually opposed
properties. Hence nothing receives these properties
except that which has the capacity ... to fluctuate
along with love__This belongs only to the heart.13

Behind the fluctuation and variegation which the heart

undergoes— known in Sufi terminology as talwin or
tafriqa— Sufi teaching points to the heart of hearts, the
sirr, as the immutable point where the still state of one­
ness—jam ', or tamkin—is unveiled. The state ofja m ‘ lies
beyond the oscillating states and stations of the heart. In
the state of jam ‘ the polar states are not simply reconciled,
they are transcended. Thus, the restless circumambulation
around the sirr, this mysterious kernel of being, brings
about, if persevered in, the sought-for state of Oneness.16
From this vantage point the heart is both the pilgrim
and the very goal of the journey. The final stage of “The
Inner Pilgrimage to the Essence of the Heart” is described
by ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani, an 11th-century mystic from
Jilan on the shores of the Caspian Sea,17 in The Secret o f
Secrets, a fine treatise which describes the mystical travel
through the inner planes. He writes:

Then the pilgrim returns home, to the home of his

origin
That is the world of Allah's proximity, that is where the
home of the inner pilgrim is, and that is where he
returns.
This is all that can be explained, as much as the
tongue can say and the mind grasp. Beyond this no
news can be given, for beyond is the unperceivable,
inconceivable, indescribable.18

A symbolic description of God* $ light which resides in

the depth of the heart is contained in one of the best-known
verses of the Qur’an—the verse of Light (24:35):

God is the Light of the heavens and the earth;

the likeness of His Light is as a niche
wherein is a lamp
(the lamp in a glass,
the glass as it were a glittering star)
kindled from a Blessed Tree,
an olive that is neither of the East nor of the West
whose oil wellnigh would shine, even if no fire
touched it
Light upon Light
(God guides to His Light whom He will.)
(And God strikes similitudes for men,
and God has knowledge of every thing.)19

This poetically haunting passage is the focus of many

commentaries. Much ink has been spilled by Muslim
scholars in the attempt to make sense of its enigmatic
images: the niche, the lamp, the tree which is neither of the
East nor of the West, the olive oil which kindles the lamp
with an invisible fire. For most commentators the identifi­
cation of God with anything, even with “light,” presented
an insurmountable theological problem which they felt
obliged to explain away. Sufis, however, have understood
the entirety of this verse as a metaphor for the human heart
in which God's light resides and by which man is guided on
his mystical journey. Most Sufi commentators didn’t hesi­
tate to take the verse at face value: God is Light, and this
Light resides in the heart; God is in the heart.
The center of this prophetic image is a niche (mishkdt)—
a recess, an unexposed space, a temenos, an inner shrine. In
this recess a lamp is placed to throw light over the enclosed
area. The lamp is lit and then placed within a glass. The
glass protects the lamp but does not reduce its light; on the
contrary, it increases it, for the glass is translucent, spot­
less, shining like a glittering star.
But what is the fuel that kindles the lamp? What sets it
alight? The oil comes from a sacred tree, an olive tree,
which is neither of the East nor of the West, a cosmic tree
beyond the boundaries of space— the tree o f life whose oil
shines forth though no fire touches it; and there is “Light
upon Light.”
Behind the details which make up this numinous image
lies the perception of a universal Oneness. The tree, the
niche, the light in the lamp are seamlessly interconnected.
That inner sanctuary within the heart of men is linked to the
Source of Life, the cosmic tree which nourishes it with the
loftiest and rarest of energies: the Divine Light. There, in
the secret of secrets, is the guarded vessel which holds and
protects God’s light.
 ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani, in the opening of his The Secret
o f Secrets, addresses the reader with a sermon which
contains a running commentary on the mystical meaning
of the Light verse. He says:

Dear friend, Your heart is a polished mirror.

You must wipe it clean of the veil of dust which has
gathered upon it, because it is destined to reflect the
light of divine secrets.
When the light from Allah (Who) is the light of
the heavens and the earth ... begins to shine upon
the regions of your heart, the lamp of the heart will
be lit. The lamp of the heart is in a glass, the glass is
as it were a brightly shining star__ Then within
that heart, the lightning-shaft of divine discoveries
strikes. This lightning-shaft will emanate from the
thunderclouds of meaning neither of the East nor of
the West, lit from a blessed olive tree ... and throw
light upon the tree of discovery, so pure, so trans­
parent that it sheds light though fire does not touch
it. Then the lamp of wisdom is lit by itself. How can
it remain unlit when the light of Allah’s secrets
shines over it?20

He continues his homily in a benevolently didactic

style, describing the awakening of mystical consciousness
within the heart and the illumination which follows:

If only the lamp of divine secrets be kindled in

your inner self the rest will come, either all at once,
or little by little....
The dark skies of unconsciousness will be lit by
divine presence and the peace and beauty of the full
moon, which will rise from the horizon shedding
light upon light, ever rising in the sky, passing
through its appointed stages ... until it shines in
glory in the centre of the sky, dispersing the dark­
ness of heedlessness.21

u
 Meditation on the verse of Light, and the experience of
the mystical power contained within the heart, produced an
even more poignant commentary from the pen of Najm ad-
Dln Kubra, a 13th-century mystic from Central Asia. In his
autobiographical book The Whiffs o f Beauty and the Rev­
elations o f Majesty, Kubra focuses on the enigmatic ex­
pression light upon light. For him, it describes the kinship,
the correspondence, and the mutual attraction of the celes­
tial Divine lights and the lights which reside in the human
heart. He writes:

There are lights which ascend and lights which

descend. The ascending lights are the lights of the
heart; the descending lights are those of the Throne.
Creatural being is the veil between the Throne and
the heart. When this veil is rent and a door to the
Throne opens in the heart, like springs toward like.
Light rises toward light and light comes down upon
light, “and it is light upon light” (Qur’an 24:35)__
Each time the heart sighs for the Throne, the
Throne sighs for the heart, so that they come to
meet..,.
Each time a light rises up from you, a light
comes down toward you, and each time a flame rises
from you, a corresponding flame comes down to­
ward you.22

Then, in an astonishing comment which highlights the

function of the heart as a magnetic center which draws the
divine lights down, Kubra adds:

If their energies are equal, they meet half-way....

But when the substance of light has grown in you,
then this becomes a Whole in relation to what is of
the same nature in Heaven: then it is the substance
o f light in Heaven which yearns for you and is at-
 traded by your light, and it descends toward you.
This is the secret of the mystical approach.23

Polishing the mirror of the heart, tearing the veils

which surround the self, increasing the strength of the
inner lights— all these bring the Divine lights down to the
human arena, because that is where the mystical life is
lived.

For Sufis the arena where the mystical states are tasted
and where the inner layers unfold is here; the time in which
it takes place is now. “The Sufi is the child of the moment
(as-sufi ibnu waqtihi) ” writes al-Qushayrt, the 1 lth-cen-
tury compiler from Nishapur, citing a statement often
pronounced by the Sufi masters. “What they mean,” he
explains, “is that the Sufi is occupied with what is right for
that moment.” Then he adds:

The poor [of heart, al-faqir] is not concerned

with his past or with his future; he is concerned with
the moment in which he is.24

The mystical life is now, where one is, not in an

eschatological future. This existential outlook is reiterated
time and again by the masters. Al-Hakim at-Tirmidhl, in
the 9th century, writes in a letter to Muhammad ibn al-
Fadl, a mystic companion from Balkh:

My brother, in your letter you pray that God

should comfort us of all our miseries in paradise: He
 who is veiled from God in this life will be com­
forted neither in this life nor in the next.2*

And Bhai Sahib, the 20th-century master from Kanpur,

says emphatically:

My disciples, if they live as I expect them to

live, and they follow me in everything, they realize
God IN THIS LIFE. Absolutely.... God MUST be
realized in one life, in this life.26

To live and to exist means to experience. In Sufi

terminology an experience, in particular a mystical expe­
rience, is named “taste”—dhawq. Figuratively, Sufis imag­
ine themselves as guests invited to a banquet. If they don’t
procrastinate, and arrive at the banquet on time, they’ll be
served the most delicious food. It’s like nothing they have
ever tasted; it cannot be described. It is served in the most
exquisite tableware; the guests are seated on the softest
silky cushions; enchanting music and the sound of trick­
ling water tinkle in their ears; sweet, unfamiliar scents
pervade their senses. They are beside themselves with
astonishment and joy. Other guests are slower to arrive.
They are held up by other business, by other attractions
which they hesitate to leave behind. They arrive late. The
banquet is almost over; they are served only leftovers. Of
the true delicacies they get, second-handedly, only a de­
scription. Returning home, the guests who enjoyed the full
banquet are at a loss to describe their mouthwatering
experience to those who have stayed behind. It’s to no
avail; the listeners can’t really share the experience. The
flavors, the sounds, the scents, the textures, the colors—all
this richness can be known only directly, through the
experience of the real banquet, through being there.
Being, existing, tasting, and experiencing are thus
interrelated. This relatedness is borne out by Sufi ter­
minology. The term for existence, or being—wujud—is
etymologically and semantically linked with the term for a
strong emotion or ecstasy— wajd; wajd is used synony­
mously with dhawq—tasting a mystical experience; and
both wajd and dhawq are synonymous with hdl—a brief
and powerful mystical experience. Hal itself is often used
synonymously with waqt—time, moment, the present
moment. Thus this existential terminology, which was
devised early in the history of the Sufi tradition, reflects
the concept of time not as a linear sequence of units of a
measured duration, but as an existential, vertical moment
which is characterized by a strong emotional response to
an inner experience.27
An anonymous 10th-century Sufi author, probably one
of the Baghdadi disciples of al-Junayd, gives a short and
intriguing definition of ecstasy (wajd). He writes:

The ecstasy of the Sufis is the [sudden] encoun­

ter of the invisible (al-ghayb) with the invisible (bil-
ghayb).2s

The unnamed author then goes on to say:

These are realities which they find (yajiduna)

within their innermost secret (sirr), [realities which
emanate] from the divine Truth (al-haqq) without
“how.”

According to this definition, the Divine Truth—al-

Haqq, one of God’s names—in its Hiddenness (ghayb) is
encountered suddenly within the hiddenness of the human
heart, and from this sudden encounter—musadafa— of the
Divine mysterium with the human mysterium, an ecstatic
moment is bom. In the subtle semantics of Sufi terminol­
ogy this ecstatic moment is connected with finding: “ecstatic
moments” (wajd) are realities which Sufis fin d (yajidun)
within their innermost. In Arabic the infinitive form wujud
means both “to find” and “to be.” “To find,” which ordi­
narily refers to a successful outcome of a search, is linguis­
tically identical with “to be,” “to exist.” Thus the Divine
Realities which seekers/Ind in their heart of hearts are also,
according to this semantic allusion, the Divine realities
which exist within their innermost, realities which have
been there all along. When a genuine encounter occurs
between the human being and that which is found in his
innermost—in other words, when the human being be­
comes in some way, “without how” (bild kayfa), aware of
what lies within his own hiddenness—he experiences a
special mystical state which is called wajd, ecstasy. The
mystical sense of this important statement can be para­
phrased as follows: “The my Sticfinds, therefore the mystic
is or: “To be is to fin d and live the Divine Hiddenness
within.” And in Rumi’s words: “Make this heart... drunk,
so that it can find today the things it lost yesterday.”29
‘Attar, using the evocative imagery of “mirroring,”
describes the realization of Truth within the heart as the
outcome of reflection. Truth, ultimate Reality, cannot be
seen directly; but it can be revealed in its reflection upon
the translucent, empty heart which contemplates it. He
says:
 If you would glimpse the beauty we revere
Look in your heart—its image will appear.
Make of your heart a looking-glass and see
Reflected there the Friend*s nobility;
Your sovereign’s glory will illuminate
The palace where he reigns in proper state.
Search for this king within your heart; His soul
Reveals itself in atoms of the Whole.30

The vision that springs from the overwhelming expe­

rience in which the mystery of Being is discovered within
the heart led Sufis in ecstasy to pronounce statements, or
utterances (shatahat), for which they were persecuted and
even executed.3’ Abu Yazld al-Bistami,
m r one of the earliest

ecstatics, whose utterances baffled sober Sufis as well as

pious legalists, cried from the level of the convergence
(jam') of the human and Divine mysteria in himself:
“Glory be to me! How lofty am I!” (subhanl! md a'lam a
sha 'ni!). And, describing the inner transformation which
this shattering experience has brought about, he exclaimed:

I shed my self (nafs) as a snake sheds its skin,

then I looked at myself, and behold! 7 am He?1

And al-Hallaj, the 10th-century martyr of love, from

the state he names “the essence o f union" ('ayn al-jam'),
cried out in ecstasy, “I am the Truth” (and al-haqq). These
famous words, as well as other so-called “heretical” utter­
ances, sent him to the gallows in the center of Baghdad.33
The merging of the human being with a transcendent
Being to the point of losing the separate identity of the “I”
is poignantly described by Michaela Ozelsel, a modern
seeker, in her Forty Days diary, an account of a “traditional
solitary Sufi retreat” (khalwa). On the 39th day of her
retreat she records the following subtle and hard-to-de-
scribe experience:

“I” see “myself’ from behind, with arms and

legs spread wide, tiny by comparison, flying toward
this immense cloud bank. Drawn as if by a powerful
magnet, falling in as if into the sea.
Then “I” stop seeing “myself." Now there is
only one perceiving. Inside this cloud bank I spread
out farther and farther__ Then I come apart and
dissolve completely in this fog that is purest love
and mercy. As if a glass of tea were tossed into a
great sea. The tea gets thinner and thinner till finally
its “tea-being” is lost in the “water-being,” leaving
only one sea water.
Having now become one, “we” spread out im­
measurably, endlessly, farther and farther. “We-I-
he” are so dissolved, so spread out, that we embrace
the whole universe. But again, there can be no talk
of “embracing,” because that would imply bound­
aries, whereas love has no boundaries. The whole
cosmos, in fact, consists of purest love. It is one
single Being of immeasurable love and mercy__
But it won’t be possible to make that under­
standable to anyone; I already don’t understand it
myself anymore as I am writing down my (whose??)
experience. It seems monstrous to me to even think
such a thing, let alone speak it. Still, I know with
every fiber of my being that it is so.34

So the experience of Oneness is the coming together of

the mysterium in man with the Divine Mysterium. In this
sense the seeker, the pilgrim on the path, is none other than
that hiddenness which resides in the heart of hearts. “The
seven heavens and the seven earths contain me not,” says
a Sufi tradition, “but the heart of my servant contains
me.”35Mystics who live in keeping with this vision are not
inclined to be drawn into spectacular acts of power or to
outline complex theosophical systems. They live, either
soberly or intoxicated, in the light and presence of the
mysterium— that gkayb which is the source and goal of all
being, yet is beyond all being—knowing that they will find
it nowhere out there, but within themselves, “closer” to
them “than their jugular vein” (Qur’an 50:16). “The inner
pilgrim,” writes ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani, “wraps himself in
the light of the holy spirit, transforming his material shape
into the inner essence” :

The inner pilgrim wraps himself in the light of

the holy spirit, transforming his material shape into
the inner essence, and circumambulates the Ka‘ba
of the heart, inwardly reciting the ... name of God.
He moves in circles because the path of the essence
is not straight but circular. Its end is its beginning.36

These wise, direct, and compassionate words of ‘Abd al-

Qadir al-Jilani promise further secrets, further mysteries,
along the circular road of the never-ending mystical path.
 The Path of Effort and the
Effortledd Path

All of existence is ease, and ease is mercy....

Though there may be weariness along the way,
it is a weariness in ease.
Ibn al- ‘Arab! 1
/ wish not to wish. I want not to want.
Abu Yazid al-Bistami1

<&% few years ago I taught a course on Sufism in an

adult-education program run by the University of London.
The people who enrolled in this course came from different
backgrounds: some were graduates who wished to fulfill an
academic requirement; some were intrigued by the title;
some knew little about Sufism and wanted to know more;
some were aspirants. Within a short time, however, this
group of strangers coalesced into a lively and engaging
class. The emphasis that the Sufi tradition places on direct
“taste” (dhawq), on concrete experiencing, was echoed by
the group’s openness and attentiveness, not only to the
literary material but also to one another, and to their own
responses—in thoughts, images, and dreams—to the texts
discussed. A few weeks after the course had ended I
received a letter from N., an Anglican pastor who had been
a rather reticent participant in the class. The thick, brown
envelope contained about twenty poems. They were—so I
understood from the covering letter—the fruit of N .’s
reflections on the themes which were brought up during the
course. The poems moved me deeply. They presented a
fresh, sensitive, and modem understanding of the way
Sufism relates to the “self’ and the quest. One of these
poems is called mudtarr.
Mudtarr is Arabic for “constrained,” for someone who
is in a state in which he can make no choices, who is forced
into a situation without any freedom of choice on his part.
Sufi authors have used this word in a particular context:
when the seeker sees that all his efforts to attain God are
futile, he reaches a point of despair, a point of total
helplessness. He comes to realize that his very effort,
necessary though it is, is the root of his failure; his very
attainments are the cause of his failing. He discovers that
all effort springs out of will, and will is a manifestation of
the self, the “I,” the n a fsf that which is believed to be
“man’s worst of all enemies.”4 Out of despair the seeker
lets go of all claim to know how to proceed or what to do.
He is stuck, he is a mudtarr. Here is how N.’s poem
captures this point:

It is always like two people trying to pass

through a door at the same time.
We collide with that eager, bothersome wayfarer
who wants to go everywhere with us,
but is the main reason why we lag behind.
Do we humor this ubiquitous companion? Berate or
ignore?

The path of spiritual enlightenment

stretches away in front, and we don’t
get past the first hurdle because we
are occupied with this little self,
this little pleasure-seeker, who
 applauds every successful step forward,
and pulls us back to admire it.
We find ourselves in the desert,
the valley of confusion, stationary.
Longing to be detached from the shadow
which clings, and not yet grasping
the fringes of God’s robe.

The Absolute cannot free us from

this paralysis, lift us straight to the place
of clear seeing, until
we are constrained—yoked without knowing it
to the end we desire,.
receptive as a cup waiting to be filled,
looking at nothing and
consequently no longer distracted
by the cavorting exhibitionist;

alone
and therefore, to our astonishment,
joined.3

What connects us with bygone generations of Sufis is

the fact that now as then the mystical quest is a journey
through a psychological obstacle, a paradox: while the
quest is from the mysterium within to the Divine Mysterium
(ghayb), “from the alone to the Alone,”6 we soon find that
there are two in us who walk on the path: “It is always like
two people trying to pass through a door at the same time.”
Who is this in us that wants to partake in everything we go
through? Sufi psychology draws our attention to an entity
more ostentatious than the unconscious “shadow,” an en­
tity that we think we know only too well: our own self, our
nafs, our sense of I-ness, our ubiquitous ego. The nafs, by
definition, is that part of the psyche which ascribes every­
thing to itself. It is the seat of I-consciousness. It is the
psychic component from which we perceive ourselves as
separate from one another: “I” opposite “thou.” The nafs
views everything from the angle of its bottomless needi­
ness, its appetites (shahawdt): it needs love, security,
success, recognition, excitement. It also needs to own and
possess all of our experiences. Through the nafs, therefore,
we feel gratified or frustrated, successful or failing.
“He who knows himself (or: his self) knows his Lord”
is a prophetic hadith often quoted in Sufi literature.7Thus,
like the adepts of old who were faced with the injunction
“Know thyself!” on the gateway to the temple of Apollo in
Delphi, the Sufi seeker too, before entering the sacred
space within, has to “know” what the self is, who lie is, who
in truth is the one in him who walks the mystical path. He
needs to understand what makes the self the main obstacle
on this journey. In the pursuit of this knowledge, past joins
present: ancient Sufis, modern Sufis, Muslim Sufis, Jew­
ish Sufis, and Christian Sufis are all in the same boat. The
seeker discovers that it is not only difficult, it is in fact
impossible to get rid of “this little self, this little pleasure-
seeker, who applauds every successful step forw ard." The
self is always with us. To counsel “Get rid of the ego” is to
ask the impossible; one simply cannot do it. Sufi teachers
and the experiences that their energy creates for their
disciples show that the nafs will not be chased away by will
power and persuasion. The experience of an ego-less state
can only be granted. It can be given, and it is given only
when the seeker becomes truly constrained.
In the 11th century al-Hujwiri, a wandering Sufi from
Afghanistan and the author of Kashf al-Mahjub, a well-
known compilation, summed up this teaching succinctly:
 Man i$ clay, and clay involves impurity, and
man cannot escape from impurity. Therefore purity
bears no likeness to acts (af‘al), nor can the human
nature be destroyed by means of efforts. *

One of the bewildering findings that come from exam­

ining our human nature is this: the arena in which the nafs
thrives most is the arena of effort (mujahada, jihad). Effort
cannot be divorced from the self which executes it. The
very contribution the seeker offers—the efforts he makes
and the actions he takes in order to change his nature—is
thwarted by this very nature. How can he ever transcend
his nature? Nevertheless, according to Sufi teaching, effort
is indispensable and has been assigned an important place
in the mapping of the journey. Effort is part and parcel of
the endeavor to pass through and actualize the different
“stages” and “stations” (maqamat) which make up the
journey and which are mapped in Sufi manuals. These
stations are reached through the intentional and disci­
plined work that the wayfarer puts into the process of
transformation required by the mystical quest. For a long
time the seeker is involved in nothing else but the “train­
ing” of his self (riyddat art-nafs). Al-Qushayri reports that
his master, Abu ‘All ad-Daqqaq, used to say: “He who
embellishes his exterior with effort (mujahada), God graces
his interior with vision (mushahada).”9
A maqdm, a station on the path, is defined by al-
Hujwiri in the following way:

Station (maqdm) denotes anyone’s “standing”

in the way of God, and his fulfillment of the obliga­
tions appertaining to that “station” and his keeping
it until he comprehends its perfection so far as lies
in man's power.10
 The stations on the journey reflect the arduous process
by which human strength and perseverance are put to the
test and are stretched to their limit. From this angle the
journey is effortful and demands tremendous will power.
The self participates in this process; the self, in fact, carries
this process through and is its agent. But here lies the
paradox: when the self makes an effort, it cannot avoid a
certain bargaining, an awareness, a self-appraisal(l).
Something inside us tirelessly takes notes and whispers:
“I" have made an effort; “I” expect to see progress; indeed,
“I” can notice in myself a significant change; or simply, “I”
can see it now! Or the self can become defensive and self-
righteous: I have been wronged, it’s not my fault, someone
else is at fault, I meant well, and so on.
These ego-centered calculations and observations are
unavoidable. They are part of the inner dynamic of inte­
grating the experiences and making them conscious. In
Sufi manuals, and especially in the teaching of the Nishapuri
“Path of Blame” (al-maldmatiyya), this introspective self-
appraisal of the nafs is called riya’.u It is, indeed, like two
people trying to pass through a door at the same time.
Hence, sooner or later, effort becomes the doorway through
which not surrender sneaks in but inflation and conceit
( ‘ujb). This is a law which has to be reckoned with on the
path of psychological transformation. For the sincere seeker
this subtle law creates a vicious circle: Without effort he
can’t progress; the outcome of his effort indicates the
progress he has made. But when he takes stock of his effort
and his progress, he is caught in the web of the ever­
present, manipulative, and plotting self. He cannot detach
himself from his self.
 When we set ourselves a goal and the goal is won, our
nafs is gratified. Even when the goal is altruistic and
virtuous, in fact especially then, we can’t prevent the ego
from claiming its share in our noble achievement: “We
collide with that eager, bothersome wayfarer / who wants
to go everywhere with us, / ... this little pleasure-seeker,
who / applauds every successful step forward, f and pulls
us back to admire it. ” No matter how selfless our aspira­
tions, it is almost impossible to remain selfless in the
process of actualizing them. Most interesting is to observe
how the ego identifies with mystical experiences. No
experience, regardless of its loftiness, is immune from
being “owned” or “claimed” by the ego, which will always
ascribe it to itself: my visions, my dreams, my experiences,
my intuition, my perseverance, my surrender. The nafs is
therefore recognized in Sufi psychology as that sly trick­
ster, the power-driven part within our human makeup
which undermines the process of the quest in endless
cunning ways, because the object of the quest always
transcends the ego, while the ego, by definition, is self-
centered.
The point at which the sincere seeker encounters the
full consequence of this vicious circle becomes a turning
point. When he comes face-to-face with the impossibility
of extracting himself from the ego, he becomes con­
strained. This is a point of no return. Here the wayfarer
sees, with clarity and disillusionment, that it is impossible
to attain the object of his quest, sincere though it is,
through his own will and effort. Disillusionment, bewil­
derment, and true humility replace the conceited inflation.
When he sees the futility of his efforts, he recognizes his
human limitation. He has come to know himself. This
knowledge can never be attained through dogma, creed, or
moralistic preaching, only through a real experience, Sufi
teaching is unequivocal: only at this point can man come to
know his true position in the scheme of things. He is a
“slav e” ( labd)\ his human nature is “slavehood”
( 'ubudiyya). With the same breath man realizes God’s
Sovereignty (rububiyya): “He who knows himself knows
his Lord.” The only choice that remains for him now is
whose slave he chooses to be: God’s or his ego’s.
At this point the tables are turned. The ego-centered
impulses shut down. The nafs lets go of all claims to know
or understand what to do, where to go. This is the dark
night of the soul: " The Absolute cannot free us from / this
paralysis, lift us straight to the place / o f clear seeing, until
/w e are constrained—yoked without knowing it/ to the end
we desire, / ... looking at nothing and / consequently no
longer distracted / by the cavorting exhibitionist; / alone /
and therefore, to our astonishment, / joined. "

The term “constrained” derives from a Qur’anic verse:

He who answers the constrained (al-mudtarr) when

he calls unto Him,
and removes the evil
and appoints you to be successors in the earth.
Is there a god with God? (27: 62)

In the state of “constraint” one loses the freedom of

choice. This is one of the most difficult things for modern
Western man and woman to accept. To lose the right to
choose— tark al-ikhtlyar—to lose the notion of “free will,”
is an affront to our cherished fought-for human rights: does
it mean that we shall have to give up the liberty and
equality which our culture boasts of, which make it so
advanced, so liberal, so politically correct? It is also an
offense to our psychological struggle for self-esteem, self-
realization, and individuation. Do we have to give these up
too? But strange though it may appear, the state of con­
straint (idtirdr) and slavehood ( ‘ubudiyya) reflects, ac­
cording to Sufi psychology, true freedom (hurriyya). The
point of emptiness and despair brings about a liberating
detachment from ego-centered impulses. Alongside the
despair one savors for the first time the taste of freedom
from the bond with the nafs. Despair over the loss of power
to control his destiny allows the seeker to become free of
inner as well as outer blame or praise. From here he can fall
no further: if he fails, he fails; if he is accused, he is
accused; if he is misunderstood, so be it. Things are no
longer seen solely from the angle of the self. In spite of the
depression, a new horizon appears in the seeker’s con­
sciousness.
» m

Michaela Ozelsel, who exerted herself to experience a

traditional Sufi “forty-day solitude” (khalwa, chilla), gives
a poignant description of this state in her diary:

Day 19.1 feel only emptiness, burned-out, end­

less emptiness. No traces of this indescribable inner
peace, the “poorhouse of not wanting,” that had
come in the night for a few seconds like a beam of
light through the cloud-cover of pain: I still keep
wanting to decide for myself which way to go. I still
have a lot to learn before I become the Sunken One
who is moved along by the currents of the ocean....
 Day 20.1 give up, declare myself helpless, admit
to myself my complete helplessness. I have to face
the fact that even my greatest voluntary offering of
renunciation the night before last has brought me
nothing. I realize that in this matter I was also mak-
ing my own plans, was “figuring my own figuring."
... I feel completely trapped in utter helplessness. I
have nothing more to give, nothing more to do. My
scheming reason, always trying to take control for
itself, has finally and conclusively cornered itself in
a hopeless blind alley. I can’t go on....

Day 21. I’m fairly calm, I don’t understand any­

thing anymore. There’s nothing more for me to do
but do what was assigned to me: zhikrs, prayer,
some reading__ Pain is healed by pain, love only
by a still greater love.... No more defenses! Only
one goal, one prayer, makes any sense: true Islam.
peace in absolute surrender.11

Years ago, while I was working on my doctoral thesis

on al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi, the 9th-century Muslim mystic
from Transoxania, I was going through something similar
to the state of constraint. 1 encountered an impasse in
myself and in my work. This impasse lasted for a long time.
One day I came across some passages in the writings of
at-Tirmidhi which responded perfectly to my inner expe­
rience. The impact of the teaching contained in these
passages has remained with me ever since. Of all the
mystics of the Sufi tradition, it was al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi
who, at a very early stage in the development of Sufi
psychology, analyzed minutely this turning point on the
path. Here is a perceptive description, based on his own
experiences and insights, of the state of constraint on the
effortful path, cited from his The Way o f the Friends o f God
(Sirat al-awliyd'):
 And when the seeker has exhausted all his sin­
cere efforts, and has found that his nafs and its
lowly features are alive, he becomes bewildered,
and his sincerity breaks. He says: “How can I ex­
tract from my nafs the sweetness of these things?”
He realizes that he can do it no more than white hair
can turn black.
He says: “I have harnessed my nafs with my
sincerity towards God, but how can 1 hold it har­
nessed? It has broken off and gone loose. When
shall I capture it?” And so he falls into the wilder­
ness of bewilderment. There, in the emptiness of
wilderness, he strays alone and desolate. He is no
longer close to himself, nor has he reached God’s
closeness.
He becomes constrained (mu4farr) and bewil­
dered; he does not know whether to go forward or
backward. Despairing of his sincerity, he cries out
to God, empty-handed, his heart empty of any effort,
and thus he says in his heart’s communication: “You
who know all hidden things, You know that there is
not even one step in the arena of true effort left for
me__You rescue me!”
Then Compassion (rahma) reaches him and he
is spared. From the place where his sincere effort
stopped, his heart is lifted up in a flash to the plat­
form of proximity at the Divine Throne, and in the
spaces of Unity he expands. This is the meaning of
God’s words: “He who answers the constrained when
he calls unto Him__ ”
This verse informs you that the passion of your
heart for sincere self-exertion will not remove the
evil from you and will not answer what you call for,
until your call and the passion of your heart be
purely directed towards God alone, who made the
hearts passionately constrained and in need of Him__
 The constrained who is left without provision,
and who strays bewildered in the wilderness not
knowing which way to go, is spared by Divine Com­
passion and is delivered by Divine Help.... He who
wanders constrained in the wastelands of the road to
Him is the one who truly merits Divine Compassion
and Relief__ He is spared by Compassion because
his call is truly sincere. It cannot be truly sincere
until he becomes constrained, with nothing to hold
on to and with no one to turn to. He who looks with
one eye to God and with the other eye to his effort is
not truly constrained, and his call is not truly sin­
cere. When the call of this constrained one is an­
swered, his heart is lifted in a flash to the abode of
the free and noble.13

The seeker’s psyche, modem or old, male or female,

Western or Eastern, in its struggle to shake off the shackles
of ego-identification comes up against the same experi­
ences and pronounces them in almost identical terms. The
point of constraint occurs at different stages of the journey.
It may take the seeker in a storm or may come as a still,
small voice when he is least ready to give up making plans
and efforts. Stubbornly the seeker holds on to his percep­
tions of right and wrong, fair and unfair, shoulds and
shouldn’ts. He thinks with a well-meaning self-righteous­
ness that he knows what is required of him. But eventually
he is taken right to the edge of knowledge and understand­
ing. There he melts. “In a flash” he knows surrender.
To be driven to the edge is to be driven beyond fear and
despair. Despair in itself is a state beyond fear. When the
seeker gives up all hope of being in control, and yet
“knows”—consciously or in his heart of hearts—that he is
vertically aligned with a higher source of power, he knows
surrender: "until / we are constrained—yoked without
knowing it / to the end we desire, i receptive as a cup
waiting to be filled, / looking at nothing__ ”

God is one, but He reveals Himself in many faces.

Constraint is experienced through being exposed to Divine
Majesty and Might (jaldl), a measure which is comple­
mented by Divine Compassion (rahma) and Beauty (jamal).
It is said in the Qur’an that one of the measures of God is
craftiness, deviousness, and ruse “Do they feel secure
against God’s devising? None feels secure against God’s
devising but the people of the lost” (7:99).14
Many will view with abhorrence such a perception of
God, will resist and fight the idea that there exists an aspect
of Divine Power for whose vagaries and arbitrariness
human beings are mere pawns. Why would God deceive
us? Why would He play tricks with us, torment us, destroy
us, take everything away from us? And if this indeed be the
way He is, what kind of a God is He? Most participants in
the London class on Sufism voiced such resistance. Once
again I found in N .’s poems an understanding of the
subtleties underlying this bewildering topic. In the follow­
ing poem he ponders the objective which hides behind this
hard-to-accept, devious guise of God:

Showing the unattractive face may be

a gambit, turning you from the worn,
time-hallowed image which has become
repugnant, to seek new appearances
 in another place. But God has many disguises,
and the closely-guarded secret
is a deviousness that will not balk
at loading you with shit to draw you
into grace.

The experience of God’s Majesty and Power can be

encountered through life’s tribulations or through the un­
predictable behavior of a spiritual guide. For the seeker
this experience is presented, usually as a bitter test, either
by the teacher’s apparent ruthlessness, unfairness, fickle­
ness, and arbitrariness, or by a grim situation in life.
Whichever it is, there comes a point at which the seeker is
left confused, bewildered, and alone, “with nothing to hold
on to and with no one to turn to. ”
In Daughter o f Fire, a modem record of a Sufi training
written by a European woman, Mrs. Tweedie documented
many bewildering experiences to which her master Bhai
Sahib’s behavior exposed her. He would be tender, com­
passionate, and radiant, and then, without warning, he
would become strict, demanding, tyrannical. The more
stubborn, self-opinionated, and righteous she was, the
more ruthless he had to become, in a manner that appeared
to her mind incomprehensible and unjust. In her despera­
tion—she recorded in her diary—she exclaimed one day:

“Oh, please, help me! I am so confused!”

“Why should I?” He looked straight at me. “If I
begin to help you, you will ask again and again for
help: how will you cross the stream? You must do it
yourself; I will not help. We all had to cross the
stream alone.”
“Don’t you realize that this is the way? I am
telling you, showing you the way. THE ONLY WAY.
 Why don’t you realize that you are nothing? Com­
plete surrender it means! It takes time. It is not done
in one day__It takes time to surrender___”
“How long?”
“The whole life, twenty, thirty years. If you live
1000 years, 1000 years won’t be enough. Some­
times you are near, sometimes very far away. I am
helping you, as a matter of fact, but you cannot be
aware of it, and I will never say so. My harsh words
help you; my sweetness never will__ You have
renounced the world; all the material things.... But
... have you renounced ... your character, your will,
everything? The character one gets inherited from
the parents, and together with the will it molds the
life of a person. If you have not renounced your
will, your character, in your case the surrender has
not yet begun.”15

A modem disciple, a very ancient teaching. How can

one renounce the will, by will? Through effort? Will and
effort cannot do it: “Man is clay, and clay involves impu­
rity. ... Therefore purity bears no likeness to acts, nor can
human nature be destroyed by means o f efforts. *' But it can
be done.

The mystery of suffering and pain lies right there. Why

“suffering”? Because when one goes through the valley of
pain, especially when one suffers an unjustifiable injury, a
deep frustration, a failure, a rejection by a loved one, and
especially when one realizes that he has no remedy for his
situation, then he may truly give away the illusion that he
is in control. Then he may truly discover the incapacity, the
impotence of his ubiquitous partner, the ego. This is a
subtle piece of teaching. But the outer teaching cannot
become a true realization unless the seeker is given a direct
experience of it. Pain and suffering are not glorified in their
own right. Suffering in itself does not redeem anyone; only
suffering which culminates in a state of constraint (idtirar),
a state in which the seeker wakes up to the reality of his
smallness and powerlessness, can redeem. This sobering-
up may herald a true transition, a real transformation. And
where the mystery of pain becomes unraveled there is
redemption. Here are a few Sufi sayings which bring this
idea home:

Tests are the lamp of the mystics, the true awak­

ening of those who keep wakeful at night, and the
destruction of those who are heedless.

Poverty is an ocean of suffering, but the whole

of suffering is Divine Glory,

Suffering is the seed of repentance and the

threshold of love.

The Divine can be revealed only there where

created beings are weak.

Suffering introduces God utterly alone to the

heart.
 It is through the very failings of certain people’s
freedom of choice that Divine Mercy comes nakedly
to give itself to all of its fullness.

God’s Mercy comes to us through what out­

wardly appears as contradicting His Law (namely,
through suffering, deviousness, injustice, pain ...),
and is then given wholly, directly, inwardly. This is
what suffering is about. It is through the application
of misfortunes and heartbreak as remedies that Di­
vine Mercy comes into the heart and transforms the
personality where efforts failed. This is known as
“testing,” bald’, and according to a well-known
hadlth no one suffered more bald’ than God’s elect,
the prophets and the Friends of God.

He who reveals the secret of God to other hu­

man beings and wishes to make this moment of
Union last in himself, experiences a suffering that
exceeds the power of created nature. If he experi­
ences nothing, it is a sign that the moment of Union
is withdrawn from him,16

You are bewildered at my severity ... though I

am mightily severe, a thousand gentlenesses are hid­
den in my severity.17

According to the System, the Shishya (disciple)

is constantly kept between the opposites, ups and
downs; it creates the friction necessary to cause
suffering which will defeat the Mind. The greatest
obstacle on the Spiritual Path is to make people
understand that they have to give up everything.18
 And Rum!, this master of love, surrender, and ecstasy,
describes the paradoxical relationship between the human
lover and the Divine Beloved in these wild images:

That beauty handed me a broom saying, “Stir up

the dust from the sea!”
He then burned the broom in the fire
saying,“Bring up the broom out of the fire!”
In bewilderment I made prostration before him;
he said, “Without a prostrator, offer a graceful prostra­
tion!”
“Ah! How prostrate without a prostrator?” He
said,“Unconditionally, without personal impulse.”
I lowered my neck and said,“Cut off the head of
a prostrator with Dhu’l-Faqar.”19
The more he struck with the sword, the more my
head grew, till heads a myriad sprouted from my
neck;
I was a lamp, and every head of mine was a
wick; sparks flew on every side.
Candles sprang up out of my heads, east to west
was filled with the train.
What are east and west in the placeless? A dark
bath-stove, and a bath at work.
You whose temperament is cold, where is the
anxiety of your heart? How long this dwelling at
rest in these baths?20

These pieces of poetic beauty and mystical paradox

can make sense only from the vantage point of a real
experience. We know through experiencing. Sufis call this
way of knowing dhawq, “tasting.” When we read the
biographies and sayings of the friends of God, the awliya
we are put in touch with our own confusion and broken
hearts. “It’s the same with everything,” says Rumi; “you
don’t understand until you are what you are trying to
understand," On the mystical path "knowing” and “being”
are identical. We understand through our state of being,
and the scope of our knowledge expands with the expan­
sion of our being, with the unveiling of the veils which
have covered our being. The non-ceremonial “widening of
the horizons” through dhawq is the true and only initiation
on the path.21

The Sufi tradition has distilled the teaching that at the

beginning of the mystical path effort is indispensable. At
the beginning almost everything the seeker goes through
on the path is effort. In fact, not right at the very begin­
ning—then there might be a short space of grace, a glimpse
into the future, an outlook into the spaces of possibilities.
It is in a way like having an auspicious initial dream at the
beginning of analysis or at the beginning of a journey. The
process seduces the aspirant. This space, however, does
not last long. The paradoxical dynamic of effort and self
soon takes over. At this stage of the journey the wayfarer
is called murid. Murid means an aspirant, someone who
wants, who has a wish, an intention, a goal, who aspires to
attain a lofty object. It has become conventional to render
it, somewhat inappropriately, “novice,”
Al-Hallaj, the 9th- and 10th-century mystic from
Baghdad who was executed because of his ecstatic and
ostentatiously “heretical” utterances, describes three phases
on the path to God.22 In the first phase, the phase of
“novicehood” (irada), the murid progresses from station
to station through the path of effort (mujahada). This is the
ascetic phase of the journey, and in this phase, whose
length can never be known in advance, one is put to
constant tests of perseverance and loneliness. Here the
murid encounters the danger of identifying with effort,
with practices, with the willful aspect of the path. But this
is only the beginning.
The second phase according to al-Hallaj is the phase of
constraint (idtirdr), of passive purification. In this phase,
since the murid has lost his self-will, he becomes murdd,
the one who is aspired after. The one who seeks becomes
the sought, the one whose aim is God becomes God’s aim,
the one who desires God becomes God’s desire, the path of
effort becomes the effortless path. At this phase one has
glimpses of Oneness in flashes of intuitive insights, in
dreams, or in deep states of meditation. Here one loses all
desires, all wishes, all sense of will: one has given up
“willing,” one has given up making intentional efforts.
This state of being cannot be attained by design; it is purely
given, it’s pure Grace (fadl, lutf).
The third phase is named by al-Hallaj ‘ayn al-jam \ the
core of union, the quintessence of Oneness. Oneness is
experienced as an immutable state of being, as a centered
point of stillness where fluctuation ceases, where the
“impulsive self” (an-nafs al-ammara bi-s-su’) becomes
the “serene self” (an-nafs al-mutma'inna).23
In this phase the mystic goes back to life and lives an
ordinary life in an extraordinary way. His resistances have
fallen away; he does not identify with the self anymore. It’s
not that the self, or ego, has died; as long as he is alive, in
body, psyche, and mind, the self is there. But there is no
identification with it. It has lost its manipulative power; it
has become subservient, in full consciousness and humil­
ity, to an energy which is many times mightier than itself.
This state does not necessarily manifest itself, although
sometimes it may, in outward states of ecstasy and drunk­
enness. The mystical experiences of intimacy and love
become more and more introverted, more and more con­
tained: “And thou shalt see the mountains, that thou
supposest fixed, passing by like clouds” (Qur’an 27:88).24
At this stage of inner peace and surrender, one lives in
a state of complete receptivity, complete fluidity, com­
plete transparency, in complete attentiveness to the Divine
hint. Such a one may also develop the capacity to put all
appearances against himself or herself, to change personas
and colors according to the needs of the moment. It is very
demanding and at the same time very inspiring to be
around such people. They become transmitters of Divine
energy. There is a particular stillness around them and a
constant sense of meaningfulness. This is the stage of
wilaya, the stage in which the mystic becomes the friend of
God, a wali. Through men and women who have reached
this stage, grace and blessing flow. It is said that when the
friends of God are seen, God is seen; when they are
remembered, God is remembered.25 Some of those who
have reached this stage become teachers, guides, beacons
of light; some remain hidden, unknown to the world,
working from the mystery of the inner secret of being.
A famous hadith qudsi, probably the most frequently
quoted piece of tradition in Sufi literature, describes this
state of being thus:
 My servant does not draw near to me by per­
forming the obligatory commandments; he draws
near to me by acts of devotion, and then I love him.
And when I love him, I become his ears, his eyes,
his tongue, his hands, his legs and his heart: he
hears by Me, he speaks by Me, he handles by Me, he
walks by Me and he comprehends by Me.26

One of the most penetrating and mysterious pieces of

Sufi poetry was written from this state of being. It is a poem
by al-Hallaj. The state of nearness and merging conveyed
in it was too shocking for al-Hallaj*s contemporaries. Even
al-Junayd, al-Hallaj ’s teacher and a mystic who knew deep
states of ecstasy, could not approve of the outspoken way
in which his former disciple had divulged the secret of
Oneness. But al-Hallaj’s poetry survived. Many Sufis,
albeit not without a great deal of apologetics, were nour­
ished on it, and it didn’t fall into oblivion. We too may have
a taste of it, and through it glimpse that state of intimacy
and merging in which there is no duality between the
seeker and the object of his search. Here is al-Hallaj’s
poetic description of the state which he names 'ayn al-
ja m ‘, the essence of Oneness:27

Your spirit is mixing with my spirit

Just as wine is mixing with pure water.
And when something touches You, it touches me.
Now “You” are “me” in everything!

You arc there, between the linings of the heart and the
heart, You escape from it
(By slipping) like tears from eyelids.
And You infuse the (personal) consciousness inside my
heart
As spirits are infused into bodies.
Ah! nothing immobile moves without
You, You move it by a hidden spring
O, Crescent (of the moon), which appears (as much)
on the fourteenth (of the month)
As on the eighth, the fourth and the second!

I have become the One I love, and the One I love has
become me!
We are two spirits infused in a (single) body.
And to see me is to see Him,
And to see Him is to see us.

Here am I, here am I, O my secret, O my trust!

Here am I, here am I, O my hope, O my meaning!
I call to You ... no, it is You Who calls me to Yourself.
How could I say “it is You!”—if You had not said to
me “it is I”?
O essence of the essence of my existence,—O aim of
my intent,
O You Who make me speak, O You, my utterances,—
You, my winks!
O All of my all,—O my hearing and my sight,
O my assembling, my composition and my parts!
O All of my all,—the all of all things, equivocal enigma,
It is the all of Your all that I obscure in wanting to
express You!
O You, by Whom my spirit was hanged, already
dying of ecstasy,
Ah! keep its token in my anguish! ...
O Highest thing I ask and hope for, O my Host,
O food of my spirit, O my life in this world and the next!
Let my heart be your ransom! O my hearing, O my
sight!
Why do you keep me so long at such a distance?
Ah, though You hide in what is invisible to my eyes,
My heart already beholds You in my distance, yes, in
my exile!2®
 Drearru and Destiny

The primary imagination l hold to be the living power and

prime agent of all human perception, and as a repetition in
the finite mind of the eternal act of creation in the infinite I AM.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge1
A God who cannot be imagined does manifest Himself in
visible symbols, and the visible symbols are real manifesta­
tions of God, and to grasp them one must have imagination.
Thomas Merton2

Part One: Light in the Darknedd

,_^Veams, Sufis say, speaking of “true dreams” (ar-

ru'yd as-saliha), are symbolic messages which arise from
the knowledge hidden in the center of being. In the wilder­
ness of unknowing through which the seeker travels, these
encoded messages give a forecast and a foretaste of things
to come. They are often the only indication which points in
the direction the seeker needs to proceed. Not all dreams are
“true dreams”; most dreams are spun, Sufis say, by the
needs of the lower self, or by the mind churning the events
of the day. Such dreams are usually confused and frag­
mented, and are characteristically called “dreams in confu­
sion” (adghdth al-ahldm). But occasionally there appears a
dream, or a series of dreams, which bears the hallmark of a
true knowledge, a knowledge which, though concealed
from mind and sense perception, responds directly and
instructively to the true needs of the dreamer's soul. Such
dreams often have an aura of numinosity which doesn’t
require interpretation. Their meaning looms clear on the
inner horizon. They have a feeling quality which touches
the dreamer and awakens in him dormant emotions, percep­
tions, a new insight into the direction his life is taking. The
dreamer, if he is sincere in his quest for truth and meaning,
will listen, understand, and respond to the inner taskmaster
who reveals himself in the dream, and who knows him
better than he knows himself.
Ibn al-‘Arabt, the 13th-century Andalusian mystic,
whose formulations of mystical knowledge have left a
lasting impression on the Sufi tradition, describes the
paradoxical nature of that hidden knowledge to which,
“until it is unveiled instant by instant,” consciousness has
no access. He writes:

God deposited within man knowledge of all

things, then prevented him from perceiving what He
had deposited within him__ This is one of the di­
vine mysteries which reason denies and considers
totally impossible. The nearness of this mystery to
those ignorant of it is like God's nearness to His
servant, as mentioned in His words, “We are nearer
to him than you, but you do not see" (56:85) and His
words, “We are nearer to him than the jugular vein"
(50:16). In spite of this nearness, the person does
not perceive and does not know__ No one knows
what is within himself until it is unveiled to him
instant by instant.3

Modern depth psychology too is based on the premise

that an aspect of the human psyche is buried so deep that it
cannot be considered part of consciousness, yet does sur­
face in various guises, most predominantly in dreams.
Jung, a modem explorer of the knowledge hidden in the
unconscious, describes it as having, paradoxically, its own
“consciousness.” “Certain dreams, visions, and mystical
experiences,” he writes, "... suggest the existence of a
consciousness in the unconscious.”4The knowledge com­
pressed in the unconscious exceeds by far the knowledge
available to consciousness. “Today we know for certain,”
Jung writes, “that the unconscious has contents which
would bring an immeasurable increase of knowledge if
they could only be made conscious.” 5 One of the charac­
teristics of analytical psychology is the understanding that
the unconscious has both a continuous and a purposive
existence: “The unconscious perceives, has purposes and
intuitions, feels and thinks as does the conscious mind.”6
Jung describes the unconscious as “a multiple conscious­
ness" with its own luminosity.7 The ego-consciousness,
according to Jung, is surrounded by a multitude of “lumi­
nosities" (scintillae, luminous particles) which sometimes
emerge as images, dreams, and “visual phantasies.” The
alchemists of past times, he says, called these luminosities
“seeds of light broadcast in the chaos” or “the seed plot of
a world to come.”8And Gerhard Adler, in one of the finest
elaborations on Jung’s ideas, explains:

The totality of these scintillae (sparks, lumi­

nous particles) produce a ‘light’ which becomes vis­
ible to the observing conscious mind as a conscious­
ness in the unconscious__Thus, when one analyzes
dreams... one finds frequently a process of ‘realiza­
tion’ taking place in the unconscious which is full of
inner consistency, coherence, and intelligence__
This I have called ... “the logos of the unconscious.”9
 This “inner consistency, coherence, and intelligence”
is that which knows in spite of outer unknowing, is that
which, in spite of outer chaos, is a master architect of
meaning. When it unmasks itself in a dream, it often
becomes the seeker’s only confirmation and support, espe­
cially in periods of anguish, loss of direction, and despair.
Yet in order to become realized in life, it demands of the
dreamer attentiveness and trust. To trust the message
inherent in the dream means to be prepared to go through
the inner and outer changes which it heralds.
In the Mathnawl Rum! tells a story about “childhood
friends.” In this story, Joseph, who is now a formidable and
mighty prince in Egypt, second only to King Pharaoh,
reunites with a childhood friend, a friend from his remote
days in the land of Canaan. It was there, in his youth, that
dreams of an august destiny were revealed to him. Naive
and immature, yet already skilled in the arcane art of dream
interpreting, Joseph disclosed his dreams to his siblings
and thus incurred their envy and hate. In their plot to kill
him they threw him into a pit, but he was rescued, sold to
a caravan of Arab merchants on their way to Egypt, and
bought there by a minister to King Pharaoh. There, after
many tribulations, events turned in his favor. He was the
only man in Egypt who could interpret some perturbing
dreams the King had had. His understanding of the King’s
dreams saved Egypt and its neighboring lands from a long
and devastating famine.
Now, Rum! tells us, when Joseph is the de facto ruler
of Egypt, a childhood friend comes to visit him. This friend
used to be “a pillow friend,” a friend with whom one shares
the most intimate secrets, as adolescents do, whispering
softly to each other into the night (which is Rum!’s way of
alluding to the intimacy with the Friend). In their intimate,
tete-d-tete reunion, the friend asks Joseph:

... “What was it like when you realized

your brothers were jealous and what they planned to do?’’

“I felt like a lion with a chain around its neck.

Not degraded by the chain, and not complaining,
but just waiting for my power to be recognized.”

“How about down in the well, and in prison?

How was it then?”
“Like the moon when it’s getting
smaller, yet knowing the fullness to come.
Like a seed pearl ground in the mortar for medicine,
that knows it will now be the light in a human eye.

Like a wheat grain that breaks open in the ground,

then grows, then gets harvested, then crushed in the mill
for flour, then baked, then crushed again between teeth
to become a person’s deepest understanding.
Lost in Love, like the songs the planters sing
the night after they sow the seed.” 10

In these endearing, down-to-earth images Rumi de­

scribes the inner certitude and strength which sustained
Joseph even in the bottom of the pit, because of his
unfailing trust in the dream-visions which predicted his
destiny. Because of his trust and certitude he could endure
patiently the vicissitudes of his life until that turn of events
in which his destiny unfolded. Thus dreams of destiny,
when understood with Joseph’s attitude and intuition,
become a hint from a veiled master-plan yet to unfold, the
"seed plot o f a world to come"; and secretly they are
celebrated— "like the songs the planters sing the night
after they sow the seed. "T o him who knows the language
of dreams, destiny—which is encapsuled as seeds in the
dark luminosity of the depths— shines bright as the full
moon in the darkness of night.

A modem woman, a flute player, dreamed:

I am sitting at the back of an orchestra, observ­

ing, not taking part in the playing, but still in it, I am
watching Celia playing the most difficult flute solo
brilliantly. She is illuminated by the dazzling music
she is playing. 1 and everyone else, the musicians
and presumably the audience too, are absolutely
stunned at the brilliance of Celia’s performance.
Then I am in a small dormitory of about four
beds on an upper floor, I am there with a few other
young flute-playing females: we are all there wait­
ing for Celia to join us after the concert, so that we
can congratulate her on her playing. But Celia does
not come. So I go by myself downstairs to a room in
an old manor-style house, looking for Celia. It is an
old-fashioned, grand room with an institutional feel
about it, but there is no one there. All the same, I
know that Celia has been there, in front of two
elderly gentlemen who had offered her great re­
wards if she produced her very best at the concert.
She had done this, and came to claim her just re­
ward, but they now said that although it had been
excellent it wasn't worth anything really. So she had
gone away.

The dreamer is an unfulfilled flute player. In her youth

she had embarked on a promising career, then married,
gave birth to two children, and gave up her career as a
performer. Years later, through inner work, she gradually
realized that her attitude toward professional performing
had been ambivalent from the start. She had viewed the
heroes of her youth—her teachers and the excellent musi­
cians with whom she played—with a mixture of admira­
tion and disapproval. She admired their brilliancy and had
often described it in the same “dazzling” terms with which
she described Celia’s recital in the dream. But at the same
time she also accused them of “a huge ego trip.” She also
discovered how she had identified with social and family
norms, according to which motherhood and wifehood did
not go hand-in-hand with pursuing a career as a musician.
But above all she discovered the pain of abandoning her
potential and love for flute-playing. This pain became
associated for her with her longing for a lost paradise.
Now in her dream, Celia, a colleague from the past who
is a professional flute player as well as wife and mother, is
giving—in the dreamer’s language— a dazzling perfor­
mance of a most difficult solo, illuminatedby the music she
produces. Everyone is stunned at the brilliance of it.
No doubt, this is the dreamer’s own brilliancy and
excellence which she sees in Celia. There is something
angelic, divine, in the way Celia’s performance is per­
ceived in the dream. This transcendent quality, projected
onto Celia, comes from that luminous center within the
dreamer herself. Celia is not a mere shadow figure, and this
isn’t simply a compensatory dream. It comes from the soul,
from the “seeds” of beauty planted there, still waiting in
the darkness, yearning to see the light, to grow, and be
harvested. They are revealed to the dreamer now, in the
throes of her inner process, as shining images which strive
to be freed from the repressing, inhibiting stamp of moral­
istic conceptions such as "all this is nothing but an ego
trip.”
The femininity and freshness of the dream are empha­
sized by the group of women, the young flute players, who
are waiting with the dreamer for Celia, their alter ego, in
order to share with her the exuberance of her performance.
Yet Celia does not materialize. Perhaps the time to realize
the promise of the dream is not yet right. The dreamer is
given to understand that there is more, perhaps deeper,
inner work to do. She separates herself from the group of
women; she has to walk alone now in order to find Celia.
She climbs down the staircase into the old, formal hall
which has an institutional feel about it. There, in the realm
of impersonal, authoritative male figures who censor and
clip down her own exuberance and buoyancy, she finds out
what is holding Celia back: Celia has been slighted by the
judges. They are not willing to grant her the promised
award in spite of her outstanding performance. The dreamer
understands the message: she will have to follow her
destiny in spite of these judges in her, alone. She will have
to rely now on nothing but her genuine aspirations, her
faith in the dream, because she must not ignore any more
the beauty of her own inner music and her soul-messages.
Through the images of a dream she has made contact
with seeds of fresh possibilities. Her task now is to believe
strongly enough in her dream, and to follow its hints in
faith and sincerity. If she does, these seeds will flower and
will mature fruitfully, and will fulfill what her soul has
destined for her.
Part Two: Imagination

The art of dreaming and dream interpreting has always

been part of the Sufi tradition. According to medieval
theories, dreams, as well as visions, which appear during
mystical states, are explained as symbolic representations
of transcendental, spiritual realities. These realities, or
meanings (ma‘dni—close to the Platonic ideas), are arche­
typal; they belong to a realm of incorporeal entities, a realm
which lies beyond the grasp of ordinary, corporeal sense
perception. This realm is named “the World of the Imagi-
nal” ( ‘dlam al-mithal). When one is dreaming, the formless
archetypes appear in front of the mind’s eye in recognizable
forms and images. This process in which meanings become
images is facilitated through the activity of a special fac­
ulty, the imaginative faculty (al-khayal).n
Mystics and philosophers have maintained that imagi­
nation, as one of the functions of the psyche, operates in the
twilight zone between the world dominated by the senses
and the world dominated by transcendent reality. By
clothing the transcendent and the formless in images,
imagination bridges these two worlds. Its ability to
function in this way increases in states in which sense
perception is withdrawn and the psychic energy is directed
inward rather than outward, that is to say, in sleep, in
voluntary “active imagining,” in meditation, and in mysti­
cal states. By producing such images, imagination acts for
the dreamer as a revealer of things to come; it points to, or
prophesies, future events which lie dormant in the realm of
the spirit.
 A Sufi master who has understood the essence and
function of imagination in an all-encompassing epistemo­
logical way is Ibn al-‘Arabi. Ibn al-‘Arabi combines a
philosophical understanding of the function of the imagi­
native faculty with insights inspired by his mystical tradi­
tion and experiences. He sees in the imagination the main
tool o f perception on any level on which perception takes
place, not only in dreams and mystical visions. Pondering
the quintessence of imagination, Ibn al-‘Arabi finds that it
is a barzakh, an isthmus. Barzakh is a term of Persian
origin (?) which appears in the Qur’an (55:19),12and which
Ibn al-‘Arabi describes as “something that separates two
other things while never going to one side.”13 This means
that while imagination lies at the ephemeral line which
separates the world of sense-perception and the world of
formless meanings, or spiritual realities, it belongs neither
to the one nor to the other. It’s a realm in its own right,
which acts as a bridge between the sensible—that which is
grasped by the senses—and the intelligible—that which is
wholly spiritual. Thus imagination becomes the means
whereby messages from the world of spiritual realities can
be perceived. In the words of Ibn al-‘Arab!:

Imaginal things... are the meanings that assume

shape (tashakkul) in sensory forms; they are given
form by the form-giving faculty (al-quwwat al-
musawwira), which serves the rational faculty.14

The very essence of a,barzakh is doubleness. Hence, as

a barzakh, imagination has a double, paradoxical nature.
“Imagination,” says Ibn al-‘Arabi, “is neither existent nor
nonexistent, neither known nor unknown, neither negated
nor affirmed.”15 Anything which is perceived, he implies,
has a double aspect: it exists and does not exist at one and
the same time.
This doubleness is best exemplified in two related
phenomena: in the reflection of images upon a mirror and
in dreams. When a person looks in a mirror, explains Ibn
al-*Arabi, what he sees is both there and not there. If he
says, “I am there, in the mirror,” he is making a statement
which is both true and untrue. This is also the case of
dreams. When, through the activity of imagination, the
spiritual realities are clothed in images, the dreamer sees
entities and objects which are both there and not there,
which both exist and do not exist. But dreams and reflec­
tions, Ibn al-‘Arabi maintains, do not exhaust the full
extent of the double nature of the reality which we per­
ceive. Doubleness is the very nature of any kind of percep­
tion, on any level of existence.
By virtue of its bringing together the realm of sense
4

perception and the realm of spiritual realities, Ibn al-

‘Arabi assigns to imagination highly exalted functions.
For him imagination is that which brings opposites to­
gether (al-jam ‘ bayna al-addad).16 It is a coincidentia
oppositorum, an idiom which for many philosophers and
mystics describes God as that which reconciles all oppo­
sites.17This explains why in dreams even Divine attributes
can be perceived in a corporeal form. The friends of God,
says Ibn al-‘Arabi, see images of highly spiritual beings
such as angels, prophets, the Heavenly Throne (al- ‘arsh),
and even God Himself. He writes:

The Prophet said, “I saw my Lord in the form of

a youth.” This is like the meanings (i.e., spiritual
 entities) that a sleeper sees in his dreams within
sensory forms. The reason for this is that the reality
of imagination is to embody (tajassud) that which is
not properly a body (jasad).,s

Also, because imagination governs everything which

can be perceived as existing, it is, says Ibn al-‘Arabi, “the
absolute ruler” (al-hdkim al-mutlaq):

We only make this allusion to call attention to

the tremendousness of imagination’s level, for it is
the Absolute Ruler (al-hakim al-mutlaq) over known
things.19

But for incorporeal meanings, embodied in dream

images, to be grasped and become conscious, one needs to
be able to interpret them. To understand the messages
conveyed in visions and dreams, the dreamer or the dream
interpreter has to have access, through a special intuitive
talent and experience, to the World of the Intaginal (*dlam
al-khayal wal-mithal). “Through the science of [dream]
interpretation,” writes Ibn at-‘Arab!,

a person comes to know what is meant by the forms

of images when they are displayed to him and when
sense perception causes them to rise in his imagina­
tion during sleep, wakefulness, [mystical] absence,
or annihilation.20

The interpreter, like imagination itself, is mediating,

crossing over, among the dreamer, the dream images, and
the meanings which lie behind these images. He is also
mediating between his own imaginative faculty and that of
the dreamer. This mediation is borne out by the Arabic
term for interpretation: ta'blr (from the root ‘-b-r: to
traverse, to cross over). “This is because,” says Ibn al-
‘Arabi,

the ... interpreter ‘crosses over’ ... by means of

what he says. In other words, ... he transfers his
words from imagination to imagination, since the
listener imagines to the extent of his understanding.
Imagination may or may not coincide ... with imagi­
nation.... If it coincides, this is called his “under­
standing” (fahm); if it does not coincide, he has not
understood.... We only make this allusion to call
attention to the tremendousness of imagination’s
level, for it is the Absolute Ruler (al-hdkim al-
mutlaq) over known things.21

For Ibn al-‘ArabI, basing himself on the Qur’anic

tradition, the archetypal dream interpreter—he who sym­
bolizes the mediating nature of the realm of the imaginal—
is none other than Joseph. In the opening lines of the
chapter dedicated to Joseph in his Bezels o f Wisdom (Fusiis
al-hikam f Ibn al-‘Arab! gives a lengthy description of this
realm, embodied in Joseph, which holds the key to the
existential doubleness characteristic of dreams, of divine
images revealed to prophets and mystics, of the meaning of
dreams, and ultimately of existence (wujud) itself. He
writes:22

The light of this luminous wisdom [symbolized

by Joseph] expands to [embrace] the plane of imagi­
nation. This is the beginning of Divine inspiration
granted to the people of Assistance (ahl ai-' indya).
 [This is supported by a hadtth transmitted in the
name of] ‘A’isha: “The first inspiration [granted to]
the Prophet was a veridical dream. Every dream he
had was [as clear as] the breaking of dawn.... ” She
did not know that the Prophet had said, “Men are
asleep; when they die they wake up.”13

[Dreaming] is sleep within a sleep. Everything

which comes about in this manner is named the
plane of imagination. This is why it requires inter­
pretation (wa-lihadha yu'abbaru). In other words,
something which in itself has one form appears in a
different form, and [the interpreter] crosses over
( ‘abir ) from the form seen by the dreamer to the
form which is pertinent to the matter; for example,
knowledge appears as milk.24

Later on, when the Prophet was granted inspira­

tion, he was transported away from his ordinary
senses ... and became “absent” from those present
with him. What took him over was the plane of
imagination, though he was not in a state of sleep.
In the same way, when the angel appeared to
him in the form of a man, this too was from the
plane of imagination. Although he was an angel and
not a man he appeared to him as a human being.25

The observer who possesses knowledge trans­

mutes this [form] until he arrives at the true form
and says, “This is Gabriel__” Both perceptions are
true: there is the truth of the sensual eye and the
truth of this being Gabriel.

The inquiry into the nature and essence of imagination

leads Ibn al-‘ArabI to explain, in his own way, the idea,
current in medieval philosophies, that the only real exist­
ence belongs to God alone. He writes:

Know that whatever is referred to as “that which

is not God” (siwd alldh), in other words, the world,
relates to God as shadow to man. It is God’s shadow.
This is the essence of the relation of [real] existence
(wujud) to the world__
The world is imagined, it does not possess a real
existence, and this is the meaning of imagination,
namely, you imagine that [the world] is a thing in
itself outside God, but this is not so__ Know that
you are imagination and whatever you perceive as
not-you is also imagination. Existence is imagina­
tion within imagination, and real existence is noth­
ing but Allah from the point of view of His essence,
not from the point of view of His names.26

But this relativistic approach does not imply that Ibn

al-‘Arabi criticizes or undervalues the function of imagi­
nation. On the contrary; he emphasizes im agination’s
all-encompassing role in erecting the double, relativistic
nature of existence and consciousness. Whatever we think,
whatever we know, whatever we experience, he implies, is
like a dream. But a dream is not an ephemeral figment
devoid of its own relative type of reality. A dream—a true
dream—is a formal incarnation of supernal, archetypal
meanings which, when correctly understood, can change
one’s life entirely. Moreover, a dream—together with
prophecy and mystical visions—is an extraordinary means
whereby man can attain the plane of Divine messages and
attributes. And at the same time it is, like everything else,
a mere reflection, a shadow of al-Haqq, the only Real
Existent, which is totally and absolutely unmediated and
unreachable.
Part Three: Drearnj and Experiences of an Early
Sufi Couple

Whatever the theoretic, epistemological aspect of

dreaming, the literary evidence shows the great attention
with which dreams have been listened to in the Sufi tradi­
tion. Some of the earliest evidence comes from the further
reaches of the Islamic world. There, in Tirmidh, a town on
the shores of the Oxus river (the Amu Daria), a 9th-century
seeker went in search of inner knowledge. Abu ‘Abdallah
Muhammad ibn ‘All al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi has left a per­
sonal document which describes his search, a document
which is, to the best of my knowledge, the first autobio­
graphical work written, or at least preserved, in Sufi
literature, and probably also in Muslim literature at large.27
In the Sufi tradition at-Tirmidhi’s name has become
associated with the doctrine, fundamental to his teaching,
concerning the awliya the friends of God, the holy men of
Islam.28 According to this doctrine, one of the routes by
which God communicates with his elect is through dreams.
This is based on the understanding of a Qur’anic verse
which reads:

Surely God’s friends—no fear shall be on them,

neither shall they sorrow.... For them is good tid­
ings (bushrd) in the present life and in the world to
come (10: 62-4).

“Good tidings,” at-Tirmidhi writes in his The Way of

the Friends o f God (Sirat al-awliya’f “is a veridical
dream .... The dream of the faithful is God’s word spoken
to him in his sleep.”29
 In his autobiography, which is entitled “The Beginning
of the Matter” (Buduww sha'n), at-Tirmidhl recorded a
series of dreams, as well as mystical experiences, and key
events in his life. Most of the dreams recorded were
dreamed by his wife. Since at-Tirmidhi does not disclose
her name, I shall refer to her simply as Umm ‘Abdallah, in
the same way that he is called Abu ‘Abdallah. Although the
dreams were given to her as Divine messages for her
husband, the document makes it clear that she is not just a
mediumistic messenger. The dreams reflect also her own
inner development. Significantly, at-Tirmidhi’s record ends
with Umm ‘Abdallah’s own mystical experiences.
This, then, is a document which describes the inner
journey, through dreams and experiences, of a mystical
couple united in marriage as well as in the spiritual quest,
whose inner and outer lives are closely knit together. In
this respect, I think, it is not only a rare document, but also
a rather rare and precious human experience.30
In his autobiography at-Tirmidhi tells how for years,
after his initial spiritual awakening which took place dur­
ing a pilgrimage to the Ka‘ba, he kept searching on his
own, with no teacher, and without companions. He writes:31

The love of solitude came into my heart. I would

go out into the wilderness and wander in the ruins
and graveyards around my town. This was my prac­
tice, and I kept it tirelessly. I was looking for true
companions who would support me in this, but I
found none. So I took refuge in ruins and in solitary
places. One day, while in this state, 1 saw, as if in a
dream, the Messenger of God, peace be upon him.
He entered the Friday mosque of our town and I
 followed him closely step by step. He walked until
he entered the maq$ura (the section reserved for the
dignitaries) and 1 followed, almost cleaving to his
back, stepping upon his very footsteps.... Then he
climbed up the pulpit, and so did I. Each step that he
climbed, 1 climbed behind him. When he reached
the uppermost step he sat down and I sat down at his
feet, on the step beneath him, my right side facing
his face, my face facing the gates which lead to the
market, and my left facing the people [in the
mosque]. I woke up in this position.32

This is the first auspicious dream which Abu *Abdallah

records. At-Tirmidh! does not find it necessary to interpret
the dream. Its symbolic meaning is, to him, apparent.
Traditionally, seeing the prophet in a dream is understood
as a true, real event and must be taken at face value and not
interpreted away.33
The period which preceded this dream is described as
intense, filled with ascetic and devotional practices. He
talks of his determination and zeal, but also of his aloneness
and confusion. In spite of his inner conviction, he needs
some external validation and guidance. The dream reflects
an exceptionally close adherence to the Prophet, aphysical
closeness which symbolizes and heralds support, direc­
tion, and spiritual attainment.
The second dream which at-Tirmidhi records again
speaks for itself and does not require him to indulge in
interpretation. He writes:

A short time after this, while praying one night,

1 was overtaken by deep tiredness, and as 1 put my
head on the prayer rug, I saw a huge and empty
space, a wilderness unfamiliar to me. I saw a huge
 assembly with an embellished seat and a pitched
canopy the clothing and covering of which I cannot
describe. And as if it was conveyed to me: “You are
taken to your Lord.” 1 entered through the veils and
saw neither a person nor a form. But as I entered
through the veils an [overwhelming] awe descended
upon my heart. And in my dream I knew with certi­
tude (ayqantu) that I was standing in front of Him
(bayna yadayhi). After a while I found myself out­
side the veils. I stood by the opening of the [outer?]
veil exclaiming: “He has forgiven me!”34 And I saw
that my breath relaxed of the fear.

This, no doubt, is more than a dream; it is a mystical

experience. The dream is told in a laconic brevity which
stands in contrast to the intensity conveyed. Alongside the
depth of the personal experience, the dream imagery links
at-Tirmidhi with the ancient tradition of mystical encoun­
ters with the Lord who sits upon the Throne. “Certitude”
(yaqin)— inner mystical knowledge—and the mystic’s
overwhelming awe in the proximity of God are themes
which recur in many of at-Tirmidhi’s descriptions of the
awliya', the friends of God.33
At a certain point in at-Tirmidhi’s spiritual journey his
wife starts having dreams which contain a clear message
for him. This is a phenomenon for which I don’t know a
parallel in Sufi literature. It is made clear that Umm
’Abdallah herself becomes involved in the transformative
process initiated through the dreams, and is told in one of
them that she and her husband are on the same rung. At-
Tirmidhi writes that, while he was going through a period
of great hardships, being harassed and persecuted by cer­
tain religious and political groups, his wife said to him:
 I saw‘in a dream, as if standing in midair, out­
side the house, on the path, an image of an old man,
curly-haired, wearing white clothes, on his feet san­
dals, and he was calling to me from the air (in the
vision 1 was standing in front of him): Where is
your husband? I said: He has gone out. He said: Tell
him, the prince commands you to act justly, and he
disappeared.

This is clearly a teaching dream. In spite of the perse­

cution he encounters, at-Tirmidhl’s position amongst his
own companions has become that of a spiritual guide. He
tells how people of his hometown started gathering in front
of his door beseeching him “to sit in front of them" (al-
qu‘ud lahum). He himself, however, does not have a
spiritual teacher to turn to. His authorization, or license to
teach (ijdza), comes by means of dream messages. Through
the dreams of his wife he is being prepared for the role of
a master. The old man, white-haired, clad in white, is none
other than Khidr, that teacher from the angelic plane of
those seekers who do not have a flesh-and-blood guide.36
A similar figure appears also in Umm ‘Abdallah’s
second dream. Al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi writes:
*

Now my wife kept dreaming about me, dream

after dream, always at dawn. It was as if she, or the
dreams, were messengers for me. There was no need
for interpretation, because their meaning was clear.
This was one of her dreams:
I saw a big pool in a place unknown to me. The
water in the pool was as pure as spring water. On the
surface of the pool there appeared bunches of grapes,
clear white grapes, I and my two sisters were sitting
by the pool, picking up grapes from these bunches
and eating them, while our legs were dangling upon
the surface of the water, not immersed in the water,
only touching it.
I said to my youngest sister: Here we are, as you
see, eating from these grapes, but who has given
them to us? And lo, a man came towards us, curly-
haired, on his head a white turban, his hair loose
behind his turban, his clothes white. He said to me:
Who is the owner of a pool such as this and of grapes
such as these? Then he took me by the hand, raised
me, and said to me at a distance from my sisters:
Tell Muhammad ibn ‘Ali to read this verse: “We
shall set up just scales on the day of resurrection [so
that no man shall in the least be wronged.... ]”37On
these scales neither flour is weighed nor bread, but
the speech of this will be weighed—and he pointed
to his tongue—and it will be weighed with these and
these—and he pointed to his hands and legs. You
don’t know that excess of speech is as intoxicating
as the drinking of wine.
I said: Would you, please, tell me who you are?
He said: 1 am one of the angels; we roam the earth,
and our abode is in Jerusalem. Then I saw in his
right hand [a bunch] of young green myrtle
[branches], and in his other hand two branches of
fragrant herbs. While he was talking to me he was
holding them in his hands.
Then he said: We roam the earth and we call on
the worshippers. We place these fragrant herbs on
the hearts of the sincere [worshippers] (al-sadiqun),
so that by them they can carry out acts of worship.
And this myrtle we place upon the hearts of the just
(al-siddiqun) and those who possess certitude
(yaqin), so that by them they can discern what is
just. These herbs in summer look like this, but the
myrtle is evergreen, it never changes, neither in
summer nor in winter.
Tell Muhammad ibn ‘All: Don’t you wish that
you could have these two? And he pointed to the
myrtle and the herbs. Then he said: God can raise
 the piety of the pious to such a stage that they will
need no piety. Yet He had commanded them to have
piety, so that they should [come to] know it.
Tell him: Purify your house! I said: I have small
children, and I cannot keep my house completely
pure. He said: 1 don’t mean from urine. What I mean
is this—and he pointed to his tongue. I said: And
why don’t you tell him so yourself? He said: ...
[What he does] is neither a grave sin nor a minor
sin. In the eyes of people it is a minor sin, but for
him this is a grave one. Why should he commit it?
Then he moved the hand which was holding the
myrtle and said: Because this is [as yet?] remote
from him.
Then he plucked out of the bunch which he was
holding some of the myrtle and handed them to me.
I said: Shall I keep it for myself or shall I give it to
him? He laughed, and his teeth shone like pearls. He
said: This is for you, and as for these which I am
holding, 1 myself shall take them to him. This is
between the two of you, because you are both at the
same place together. Tell him: This is my last coun­
sel to him. Peace be with you!
Then he added: May God bestow on you, oh
sisters, ‘green gardens’ (joy and fruitfulness), not
because of your fasts and prayers, but because of the
purity of your hearts.... I said to him: Why don’t
you say it in front of my sisters? He said: They are
not like you and they are not your equal. Then he
said: Peace be with you, and went away. I woke up.

As in the previous dreams, here too one is struck by the

allusions to ancient traditions, teachings, and archetypal
images: the clear pool of water, the bunches of grapes, the
messenger clad in white. The myrtle, a central image in
Umm ‘Abdallah’s dream, is an ancient symbol for the just,
the righteous, the siddlq (and in the Jewish tradition: the
zaddiq). In the book of Zechariah (1:8-11), the prophet is
shown a vision which is in many ways reminiscent of Umm
‘Abdallah’s dream images:

I saw by night, and behold a man riding upon a

red horse, and he stood among the myrtle trees that
were in the bottom.... Then said I, O, my lord, what
are these? And the angel that talked with me said
unto me, I will show you what these be. And the
man that stood among the myrtle trees answered and
said, These are they whom the Lord has sent to walk
to and fro through the earth. And they answered the
angel of the Lord that stood among the myrtle trees,
and said, We have walked to and fro through the
earth, and behold, all the earth sitteth still, and is at
rest.

The Arabic for myrtle—as—derives from a linguistic

root which denotes “healing.” In the East myrtle has been
known for millennia to possess healing qualities. For
certain religious groups it had special holy connotations.
Umm ‘Abdallah’s dream alludes, through the symbolism
of herbs and myrtle, to two levels of spiritual healing or
instruction: the level of ordinary good worshippers (as-
sddiqun), who are symbolised by the fragrant herbs, and
the level of the just (as-siddlqun), The latter, who in at-
Tirmidhl’s teaching are synonymous with “the friends of
God,” are symbolized by the myrtle. Both types of wor­
shippers are sincere—as is indicated by the linguistic root
s-d-q, common to their respective designations. Neverthe­
less, they represent a hierarchical distinction between
those who worship God externally and those who worship
Him both externally and internally. The nature of the
worship of the first group is not altogether firm; it’s rather
fickle, since the herbs which symbolize them “in summer...
are like this," namely, withered, “and in winter... are green.”
As for the siddiqun, the mystics, “those who have attained
certitude,” they are symbolised by the evergreen myrtle
which never withers, neither in winter nor in summer.
The hierarchy which distinguishes the sddiqun from
the siddiqun is one of the main themes in at-Tirmidhi’s vast
literary corpus. A clear relationship exists therefore be­
tween his, or his wife’s, dream-experiences and the devel­
opment of his mystical teaching. Thus the dreams indicate
a process of inner integration, whereby the symbolic mes­
sages become truly directive and instructive. The dream
brings good tidings also for Umm ‘Abdallah. She is distin­
guished from her sisters and is told in unambiguous terms
that she and her husband “are together in the same place,"
and she too is given a branch of myrtle. Thus through the
dream both wife and husband have become prepared for
the next phase of their spiritual journey.
The next stage is inaugurated by a dream in which
Umm ‘Abdallah is shown the spiritual transformation
which is going to take place in her husband and in the world
around him through his teaching. The dream points to her
own deep involvement in this process: she becomes, or
pledges to become, the custodian and protector of her
husband’s work. Without her his mission cannot be com­
plete. Here is the dream:

[In her dream] she was in the open hall of our

house.... There were several couches there, uphol­
stered with brocade. One of the couches stood next
to the family mosque. She said: I saw a tree growing
by the side of this couch, facing the mosque. It grew
up to a man’s height, and it looked very dry, like a
withered piece of wood. It had branches, similar to a
palm tree, but the branches were all dry, like wooden
pegs or filings. Now from the bottom of the trunk
new branches emerged, about five or six, and they
were all green and moist. When these branches
reached the middle of the dry tree it started stretch­
ing and extending upwards to about three times a
man’s height, and so did the branches too. Then
from amidst the branches there appeared bunches of
grapes. I heard myself saying: This tree is mine! No
one from here to the other end of the world has a
tree like this!
I came closer to the tree and heard a voice com­
ing from around it, although I could see no one
there. I looked at the trunk and saw that it had
grown out of a rock, a big rock. By the side of this
rock I saw another big rock which had a hollow, like
a pool. From the trunk of the tree a brook emerged
and its water, which was pure, flowed into the hol­
low of the rock and gathered there.
Again I heard a voice calling me from the bot­
tom of the tree: Can you pledge to protect this tree
so that no hand would touch it? Then this tree is
yours. Its roots have stood in sand and soil; many
hands have touched it, and its fruit became worth­
less, then rotted and dried up. But now we have
placed the rock around it, and we have nominated a
bird over it, to watch over the fruit of this tree.
Look!
I looked, and saw a green bird, the size of a
pigeon. It perched on one of the branches, not on the
green moist ones which grew from the bottom of the
trunk, but on a dry one__ The bird hopped up­
wards, climbing from branch to branch; whenever it
perched on a dry branch, which looked like a dry
peg, it became green and moist, and bunches of
grapes hung down from it. The voice said: If you
 protect this tree faithfully the bird will reach the top
of the tree and the whole tree will become green; if
not, the bird will stay here, in the middle. I said: I
will; indeed, I will protect it! But there was no one
to be seen.
The bird flew to the top of the tree, branch after
branch, and the whole tree became green. When it
reached the top of the tree 1 exclaimed with amaze­
ment: Id ildha ilia ‘Uak! (“There is no god but God”).
Where are all the people? Can’t they see the tree
and come nearer? And the bird answered from the
top of the tree: la ildha ilia lldh! I wanted to pick
up a tender grape from the tree, but a voice said to
me: No! Not until it has ripened! And 1 woke up.

This dream carries a prophetic message for both hus­

band and wife. Its images, as those of the previous dream,
are ancient and archetypal. Discourse on the meaning of
tree, rock, brook, the bunches of grapes (again), the green
bird could take up many pages. But Abu ‘Abdallah is
content to let the dream speak for itself. The magical
transformation of the withered tree which takes place in
front of Umm ‘Abdallah’s eyes, the clear, authoritative
messages which are conveyed to her through a hidden
messenger, the green bird—a touch of Khidr?—which
calls out the formula of faith and surrender from the top of
the tree—all these images carry a lucid numinosity that
touches the reader as it touched the dreamer. For her, who
has a complete and utter faith in her husband’s mission and
destiny, the dream speaks with prophetic truth. She under­
stands and accepts her role in his mission with enthusiasm
and joy. Though the time is not yet ripe, the “tree” is
destined to grow to immense dimensions and be protected
by the “angelic” bird which is nominated upon it.
 Umm ‘Abdallah continues to dream, and her new
dreams reveal deeper layers of the extraordinary nature of
her husband's mission. “On another occasion,” Abu
‘Abdallah writes,

she dreamed that she was sleeping with me on the

roof. She said: I heard voices coming from the gar­
den, and got anxious, because I thought that there
were guests whom we had neglected. I'll go down
and feed them, I thought, and went to the edge of the
roof in order to climb down, when the edge of the
roof, where I was standing, descended until it reached
the ground and stopped.
I saw two dignified persons sitting. I approached
and apologized. They smiled. One of them said: Tell
your husband: Why do you bother with this green
[grass]? Your task is to give strength to the weak
and to be their support. And tell him [also this]: You
are one of the pegs of the earth, and to you is as­
signed a section of the earth.
I said: Who are you? One of them said:
Muhammad Ahmad, and this is ‘Isa (Jesus). Tell
him, he added: You are saying. Oh, King, oh, Holy
One, have mercy on us! [It is you who should]
become sanctified! Every piece of land which you
bless will grow strong and mighty, and that which
you do not bless will become weak and worthless.
Tell him: We have given you the Inhabited
House: “[I swear] in the name of the Inhabited
House.”38 May you have success! Then I woke up.

In this prophetic dream, which heralds a destiny far

beyond the boundaries of Tirmidh or the 9th century, at-
Tirmidhi is assigned, by no less than Muhammad and
Jesus, the role of a peg, one of the pegs (awtad) of the earth.
The spiritual hierarchy of the awliyd' consists of a
fixed number of evolved human beings, without whom the
existence and well-being of the world cannot be main­
tained. At the top of this hierarchy stands the pole (qutb),
who is referred to by at-Tirmidhi as “the Master of the
Friends of God” (sayyid al-awliya'), or as their Seal (khdtam
al-awliya’). Under the pole come the seven pegs, below
which come the forty successors (al-abdal).
This hierarchy has become central to Sufi teaching and
terminology.39Although it was not originated by al-Hakim
at-Tirmidhi—in fact, this is a very ancient teaching—he
was its main and earliest exponent in the Sufi tradition. In
this extraordinary and highly auspicious dream Abu
‘Abdallah is assigned no less than “the Inhabited House”—
an allusion to the Holy House, the heart and center of
Islam—by none other than two of the great spiritual au­
thorities of his tradition. The dream is thus more than a
message; it is an assignment from the highest source to a
mission of cosmic proportions.

Information about Sufi women does not exist in abun­

dance. We are fortunate to have access to this unique
record which tells about a loyal, sincere, prophetic woman,
whose dreams have been carefully and lovingly recorded
by her husband. This unnamed woman from Central Asia
became awakened, through her deep empathy with her
husband’s destiny, to her own inner quest. Alongside her
dreams for him, at-Tirmidhi’s autobiography records also
Umm ‘Abdallah’s own spiritual ripening through dreams.
In one of these dreams she sees herself and her husband
sleeping together in bed. The Prophet comes and lies down
with them.
In another dream, one of the last dreams in the docu­
ment, and one which—the record says—is meant for her
alone, she sees the Prophet enter their house. She wants to
kiss his feet, but he does not allow it. “He gave me his
hand,” she told her husband,

and I kissed it. I did not know what to ask of him.

One of my eyes had been badly inflamed, so 1 said:
Messenger of God, one of my eyes has been in­
fected with inflammation. He said: Cover it with
your hand and say la ildha ilia ‘Hah, the One with­
out partner. His is the kingdom and His is the praise,
He revives and He kills. He holds the good in His
hand, He is the omnipotent one. I woke up, and
since then, whenever anything befalls me I repeat
these words and the obstacle is removed.

The final passages of at-Tirmidhi’s autobiography

record Umm 'Abdallah’s own mystical experiences. He
writes:

After these dreams she felt an urge to search for

truth herself. The first experience that she had, which
confirmed the veracity of her dreams, was this: while
she was sitting one day in the garden, five or six
days after she had had this last dream, the following
phrases descended upon her heart: The light and
guide of all things! You are He whose light pierces
all darkness!
She said: I felt as if something penetrated my
chest, circled within my heart and enveloped it. It
filled my chest up to the throat; I almost choked
from its fullness. Heat spread through the cavity of
my body, my heart was aflame, and all the sacred
 names appeared to me in their glory. Anything upon
which my eyes fell, on the earth or in the sky,
anyone whom I looked at, I saw as I have never seen
before, because of the beauty and joy and sweetness
[which filled me]. Then a verse in Persian descended
upon my heart: We have given you one thing!
Again I was filled with joy, elation, and great
energy. The next day (she said) another verse de­
scended on my heart: We have given you three
things: Our glory. Our might and Our beauty!
Then, she said, 1 saw a glow behind me, and it
stayed above my head as if in a dream, and in this
glowing light these three things were revealed to
me: the knowledge of the Divine Glory, the knowl­
edge of the Divine Might, and the knowledge of the
Divine Beauty.
Then 1 saw something shimmering and moving,
and it was conveyed to me: These things are going
to take place. All that moves is from Him; the might
and the high rank are from Him, and so are the
beauty and the merit. This fire that 1 first saw in the
sky is from Him, and now I see it as sparks of
emerald and silver, blown and kindled.
On the third day these words descended on her
heart: We have given you the knowledge of past and
future.
She remained in this state for some time, and
then the knowledge of the names of God was re­
vealed to her. Each day new names opened up to
her, and the glowing light was upon her heart, and
the inward meaning of the names was revealed to
her. This lasted for ten days. On the tenth day she
came to me and said that the [Divine] name the
Gracious (al-latif; also: the Kind, the Gentle, the
Subtle) was revealed to her.

With these experiences at-Tirmidhl’s autobiographi­

cal record, seemingly abruptly, ends. But finished or un­
finished, this is a unique document. From the care with
which these, as well as the rest of the dreams contained in
the document, were recorded, it is clear how seriously dreams
were taken as heralds of destinies by the early Muslim
mystics. In particular, at-Tirmidhi’s record of his and his
wife’s dreams gives an insight into the importance as­
signed to dreams as instruments of spiritual teaching. In
this respect, at-Tirmidhi’s autobiography stands out not
only as an ancient personal dream journal, but also as a
testimony of the practical function of dreams in the pro­
cesses of inner transformation on the mystical journey.
 Where the Two Secu Meet:
The Story ofK hidr

We will take upon's the mystery of things

As if we were God's spies
Shakespeare, K ing L ea r V, iii
The Masters are the spies of the hearts.
‘Abdallah Ibn ‘Asim al-Antakl
+ +

story of Khidr is the story of a meeting, the

meeting between the two planes of existence in which
seekers live out their mystical quest. It is the story of how
this meeting becomes possible and real in the midst of day-
to-day life. Khidr, whose name is usually translated as “the
Green Man,” is always there, where the two planes meet.
He is there, “where the two seas meet,” the sea of life and
the sea of death, the space-bound and the spaceless, the
time-bound and the timeless. Khidr comes to us in legends
and stories as a mythical figure, as an archetypal image
rather than as a concrete person. But for us to be able to
navigate between the two planes freely, he has to be real­
ized concretely in our lives. It is Khidr, by whichever form
he chooses to reveal himself, who makes the passage
between the two worlds possible. But first he has to be
sought out, to be recognized. The meaning of the message
that he carries with him has to be grasped.
I wrote the first version of this chapter in London, on
a bleak January morning. There was not much movement
in the air. A lifeless scene lay in front of my eyes: red,
uniform roof-tiles, wet and immobile; blind, sealed win-
do wpanes with opaque curtains; inanimate TV aerials
sticking out aimlessly in a metallic, hostile sky. Naked
trees spread their crooked arms and spiky fingers omi­
nously. Birds had forsaken this place, had migrated to
warmer, more hospitable regions. Only the cries of ravens
and the shrieks of a few seagulls now and then pierced the
immobile silence. Not a leaf to be seen on that January
morning, not much green. A gloomy, wintry suburban
landscape. A world which had grown old and tired; *d/nm-
e pir, “an old world,” in the words of Hafez, the 14th-century
Persian poet from Shiraz. Yes, the world has grown old.
And yet, very soon, he promises (and his words have been
taken as oracles for all these centuries by lovers of Sufi
poetry), only a pace away, a turning point, a change; the
world will be turned upside down: spring will burst forth
and everything will become alive and green. Here are
Hafez’s words:
p *

The breath of the morning wind will soon spread the

fragrance of musk,
And the world will become young again;

The narcissus will soon wink at the anemones.

And scarlet lilacs to white lilies a fragrant cup will
soon display,

The nightingale, who endured so long the pain of

separation
Will soon burst into the rose’s chamber in joyous
noise and clamorous array__

If 1 leave the mosque and go to the tavern, don’t fuss.

For the preaching has taken too long, and time will
 soon be on its way.
O, heart, what will assure the wealth of baqd'
If you put off for tomorrow the joys of today?...

The rose is precious, enjoy her company now,

For into the garden she came this way, and soon she
will go that way....

O, poet, this is a gathering of friends; read a ghazal,

sing a love-song.
How long will you say: “it came this way, soon it will
go that way?”

It is for your sake that Hafez has come to the plane of

existence,
With a firm foot bid him farewell, because soon he
too will be passing away.1

In these verses Hafez has captured the transition point

between the dying old world and the young new budding
world. He has conveyed the transitory state of the new as
well as the old. Everything “comes this way and soon will
go that way.” But between the old and the new there is a
meeting point, an ephemeral place where what was meets
that which is about to take its place. This meeting point is
the realm of Khidr, the green one, the hidden one, the
remover of obstacles, the timeless Pole.
As I prepare now the second version of this chapter,
Hafez’s wisdom comes to life for me. It is mid-April. I am
not in London, but on the West Coast of America. Every­
thing around me is lush and bursting with life. Even
Hafez’s poetry is no match for the living, vivid experience
of Chimney Rock. Walking there I experience the deep
joy, colorfulness, versatility, and sacredness of Nature in
its most ravishing appearance. Yet I also experience the
transient nature of everything around me, including ray-
self, the brief moment in which this experience can be
captured in time:

The rose is precious, enjoy her company now,

for into the garden she came this way, and soon she
will go that way__

The experience of the “now" (waqt, hdl), of the time­

less moment, so fundamental to Sufi teaching and so
different from everything to which we have become con­
ditioned—this experience too belongs to the realm of
Khidr.2
*

The name Khidr is Arabic and it comes from Muslim

*

sources. Yet the figure of this keeper of the secret of

immortality is echoed, in various names and forms, in
some of the oldest recollected stories of the human race.
When Gilgamesh, the great hero of ancient Mesopotamia,
discovered that every living thing must die, he resolved to
seek out the wise old man of his time, Utnapishtim, who
lived at the mouth of the rivers (ina pi narati) on an island
across the Sea of Death, in order to learn from him the
secret of immortality.3
In a similar way, but with different names and protago­
nists, a famous yet enigmatic Qur’anic passage tells how
Moses, the great prophet and law-giver of the Children of
Israel, sets out to search for the source of Divine knowl­
edge.4 Moses pledges to search for a certain mysterious,
unnamed man, upon whom God has bestowed His Divine
knowledge (al- ‘ilm al-laduni). This knowledge is superior
to the knowledge and wisdom given to Moses. According
to Muslim commentators, this unnamed man, whom the
Qur’an describes simply as “one of Our servants unto
whom We had given mercy from Us, and [whom] We had
taught ... knowledge proceeding from Us,”s lives, like
Utnapishtim in the Gilgamesh epic, on a green island
abundant with lush vegetation in the heart of the sea. This
island is marked by a rock, and it is located “where the two
seas meet” (majma* al-bahrayn). It is at this place that
Moses, according to the Qur'an, is to meet the mysterious
figure identified as Khidr.
The Qur’anic story of Moses and Khidr is told in a
fragmented and enigmatic way. It is obvious that the
audience to whom the story was related was familiar with
the main story lines. But for later readers, many details
which are missing in the Qur’anic version have been added
by Muslim commentators. Here are the opening lines of the
story as told in the Qur’an:

And ... Moses said to his page,

“I will not give up until I reach
the meeting of the two seas,
though I go on for many years.”
Then, when they reached their meeting,
they forgot their fish, and it took
its way into the sea, burrowing.
When they had passed over, he said
to his page,“Bring us our breakfast;
indeed, we have encountered
weariness from this our journey.”
He said, “What thinkest thou? When we
took refuge in the rock, then I
forgot the fish ...
and so it took its way into
the sea in a manner marvellous.”
Said he, “This is what we were
seeking!"And so they returned
 upon their tracks, retracing them.
Then they found one of Our servants,
unto whom We had given mercy
from Us, and We had taught him
knowledge proceeding from Us.6

Apart from the rock, there is another sign by which

Moses and his servant are able to recognize the place where
the two seas meet: the miraculous revival of the cooked
fish which Moses’ servant has prepared for their breakfast.
Although the Qur’an does not say it explicitly, it is evident
that the way in which the cooked fish finds its way into the
sea is connected with the special quality of the water in this
extraordinary place: it is the water of eternal life. Every­
thing it touches is revived and becomes alive forever.
This is yet another ancient motif. It is found in myths
and legends about the great king Alexander. Alexander the
Great left such a deep impression on the peoples of the East
in Antiquity that for centuries, well into the Middle Ages,
legends circulated about his superhuman personality and
deeds. According to some legends, the great Alexander
became disillusioned with all his conquests and achieve­
ments when he contemplated the temporary nature of every
living thing. He decided to search for the spring of eternal
life. He embarked on his search with a companion, a cook
named Andreas, After many years of wandering unsuc­
cessfully they decided to part ways. Andreas, on his way,
happened to take a pause for food by a river. He opened the
basket where he had stored a cooked fish. A few drops of
water splashed accidentally on the fish, and immediately it
was revived and leaped into the water. Andreas jumped
after the fish, and became inadvertently blessed—or cursed,
as it was sometimes implied—with immortality.
 In some Islamic versions of the Alexander legends it is
related that, on diving into the water of immortality,
Alexander’s companion became green (in Arabic khadir),
hence the attribute al-khadir, “the green one,” from which
derives the somewhat colloquial form al-khidr, which
means “the color green,” or simply “greenness.”7
Khidr is sometimes described as living in rivers and
riding a fish, and therefore he is also known as Dhu an-
Nun> “he who possesses the fish.”8 Khidr is believed to be
walking on the skin of the earth, and wherever he steps
green shoots come forth. His touch and presence bring
things to life. He is endowed with the power of finding
water which is hidden in the depth of the earth. He can be
present in many places at one and the same time. He
materializes in many disguises and forms. He is the one
who appears in desperate situations to the “constrained”
(al-mudtarr} and removes all obstacles. He is therefore the
mushkil gusha of all times.9

Moses is motivated to make the journey to the place

“where the two seas meet” in order to find the teacher who
has been given direct knowledge from God. This is the
sacred knowledge ( ‘ilm lad uni) after which mystics seek.
He takes a vow to search for this meeting point for as long
as it takes. It has been revealed to him that only in this
mysterious place do the two planes of existence come
together; only there can the mystical knowledge be truly
transmitted.
 What are the “two seas”? Many interpretations have
been offered by Muslim commentators. Some made great
effort to try to locate them geographically. Sufis, however,
have understood it to indicate the place where the sea of
life and the sea of death meet, where the state offana ’ and
the state of baqa ' meet. This place is marked by a rock and
by the miracle of resurrection and transformation symbol­
ized by the revival of the cooked fish. The cooked fish
itself represents the anguished soul of the seeker in search
of the water of mystical immortality.
The rock is a symbol of God’s Mercy: it is a refuge, a
stronghold, a place of rest for the weary travelers on the
path. But there are many rocks along the seashore and in
the sea. How is this one to be recognized? By what special
mark? There is no obvious demarcation line between the
two zones. Even Moses with all his eagerness and wisdom,
and in spite of his special rank as the prophet to whom God
had spoken “mouth to mouth”—even Moses did not recog­
nize this meeting point when he reached the place where
the two seas meet. How much more so “ordinary” seekers?
But Moses does not give in to despair or self-blame; he
is determined to go on for as long as it takes. And this is the
true moral of the story for travelers on the mystical path.
Rumi has captured the meaning behind Moses’ humility
and determination to go in search of the mysterious teacher
regardless of his unique closeness to God. This is how
Rumi has conveyed this lesson in his Mathnawi:

Learn from him with whom God spake, O noble

sir! See what Kalim (Moses)10 says in his longing!
“Notwithstanding such a dignity and such a pro­
phetic office,... I am a seeker of Khizr ... quit of self-
regard.”
 ... “O Moses, thou hast forsaken thy people;
thou hast wandered distraught in search of a blessed
man.
Thou art an emperor delivered from fear and
hope: how long wilt thou wander? How long wilt
thou seek? To what bound?
(He that is) thine is with thee, and thou art
conscious of this. O, (thou who art exalted as the)
sky, how long wilt thou traverse the (low) earth?”
Moses said, “Do not make this reproach....
1 will fare as far as the meeting-place o f the two
seas, th at... I may be accompanied by the Sovereign
of the time.
1 will make Khizr a means to (the achievement
of) my purpose: (either) that, or I will go onward
and journey by night a long while.
I will fly with wings and pinions for years: what
are years? For thousands of years."
(He said) “I will fare,” meaning,“Is it not worth
that (toilsome journey)? Do not deem the passion of
the Beloved to be less than the passion for bread
(worldly goods).”11

Moses, then, is going in search of the mystical teacher.

And the teacher is there, “where the two seas meet,” at the
meeting point of past and future, light and darkness, the
transient and the eternal. The mystical journey is always a
search for this meeting point. This is one of the deep
meanings of the “union of opposites,” the coincidentia
oppositorum.,2 It is a journey to an altogether different
plane from the one with which we are familiar. At the same
time the search is not a flight; it is not an escape from this
familiar, ordinary plane: it is a meeting of the two.
In order to reach the water of mystical immortality,
which is marked nowhere geographically or spatially, the
mystic too, like Gilgamesh, Alexander, Andreas, Moses,
and his page, must take up a journey in the course of which
he shall have to traverse the Sea of Death. The Sea of Death
is the plane of illusion. When consciousness and self-
identity are held bound by the spell of impressions and
sense perceptions, one is deemed dead.
Gilgamesh, Alexander, and Moses all embarked on
their journey because they came to realize that on this
plane of existence everything is bound to perish. All three
stand for some grand achievement: there was no hero in
ancient Mesopotamia mightier than Gilgamesh; there was
no conqueror in Antiquity more powerful than Alexander;
there was no prophet in the Biblical tradition superior to
Moses. Yet all three, attaining the summit of man’s efforts,
had to realize that all their achievements were transient,
ephemeral, without real substance. In essence they were
null and void, and their duration, from the vantage point of
sacred eternity, less than a mustard grain of measured time.
This is the realization behind any spiritual quest:

All that dwells upon the earth is perishing (fanin),

yet still abides (fa-yahqd) the Face of thy Lord,
majestic, splendid.13

This Qur’anic verse is the source forfana'wa-baqa'

(‘‘annihilation” and “permanence”), the pair of opposites
which lies at the core of Sufi perception of Reality. Sufis
have applied this pair to designate the highest stage on the
path of inner transformation:fana’ indicates the annihila­
tion of the psychological identification with the lower self,
the ego f nafs), while baqd' indicates the permanence of the
higher Self, the soul, man’s everlasting core of being.
Fana ’ is understood, therefore, not as the liberation of soul
 Where the Two Scao Meet

from body in the afterlife, but as its liberation from the

confinement of ego-bound consciousness in this life. It is
the liberation from the blurred, restricted vision of ordi­
nary sense-perception, of conventional values, of the col­
lective sense of right and wrong, good and evil. To “traverse
the Sea of Death” means to go through a long and painful
process in which self-centeredness falls away, in which
delusions of the ego’s omnipotence fall away. When the
nafs, the seat of ego-consciousness, steps aside in recogni­
tion of its appropriate place within the scheme of things,
then can the soul abide with the Beloved, “majestically,
splendidly.”
Our three heroes, men of great achievements and of
huge egos, become humbled when they realize that in the
end everything perishes. Embarking on the journey is in
itself a sign of a new attitude, an attitude of humility,
poverty, and longing for true fulfillment. Every spiritual
journey can be traced back to this starting point. When the
feeling of want, of inner poverty, of missing something
essential—like air for breathing—takes over, and espe­
cially when it takes over after a life of great achievements,
then a turning of the heart, a sincere tawba occurs.14 We are
told that as soon as Moses and his page, Joshua bin Nun,
discovered that they had missed the meeting place with the
teacher, they at once “returned upon their tracks, retracing
them.” To retrace one’s steps, to recognize one’s errors, is
a crucial point on the path. This is when the real transition
takes place. In Sufi terms this stage is named tawba,
repentance, a conversion of the heart. From this point on,
the mystical quest is in essence a “retracing" of one’s steps,
a “regression” from the point of view of ordinary life.15
 One’s sense of achievement must die so that the Sacred
can radiate within the heart . The point of death for the nafs
is the point of revival for the soul. At this point Khidr is
waiting. He is both the undertaker and the midwife. He
shatters illusions and delusions, and then gives meaning
and direction to the soul’s search. If, like Moses, Alexander,
and Gilgamesh, the seeker vows to keep up the journey
even if it takes a lifetime, even though he has to retrace his
steps many times, then, at the right place and time, he will
encounter Khidr who will guide him from station to station.

Khidr lives on a green island by the source of the Water

of Immortality. He is the life force behind all natural
phenomena. Nothing can be alive and vital without Khidr’s
touch or presence. When a seeker goes through times of
emptiness and depression, in an inner wilderness where
nothing seems to grow, he has seemingly lost touch with
Khidr. Khidr has veiled himself. But he is there, hiding
behind the thorny, barren branches, or in the empty water-
holes. When friends gather and there is no feeling of
intimacy and empathy, when words sound empty and
meaningless, Khidr seems to be absent; he keeps himself in
hiding. When things become mechanical, repetitive, un­
conscious, then, too, Khidr is veiled. But if companions
gaither with a sense of purpose, if there is something
meaningful in their lives that has brought them together,
here, now, and if that which happens in that “here and now”
has vitality, then they know: this is the imprint of Khidr.
When the eyes glimmer and shine, when Eros is in the air,
then Khidr is around.
*

But also when old idols are smashed, when the traveler
experiences states of rage and frustration, when he cannot
go on with his routine, with idly surrendering to the
tyranny of circumstances, when he has reached a point of
no return, when he feels the time has come to risk that
which has been taken for granted, then, provided the time
is right, Khidr is at work. When despair becomes greater
than fear, it is Khidr who intervenes and comes to his help
as the “remover of obstacles,” as the mushkil gushd. This
ever-present life force gives the seeker strength to change
the direction of his erring life.
In the following poem inspired by a dream, the inner
Khidr is lost and then found. When he is re-found, he
becomes the primordial, green energy of becoming and
creativity:

Once there was a man,

a green man, ancient man.
He lived before time was,
he wove creation out of the green,
the evergreen green planes of his interiors.

I lost him.
Transformation of the color green
to light and vice versa ceased.
There was no hope:
the future stopped becoming,
I lost my man of green,
I lost my man of light.

I dreamed.
I dreamed a circle.
I dreamed myself a circle,
 and there I was, and he,
and many men like him,
men and women of green
weaving threads of golden rays of green
to be my daughter’s hair,

my red-haired, blue-eyed daughter,

so young that she can hardly know her name,
so tender she can hardly speak
the sounds that have formed her,
the primal notes of her and my becoming.16

When the mysterious way in which we are connected

inwardly to Khidr reveals itself in a dream, or an insight,
in relationships, or in an art form, then the deep meaning of
his evergreen life force becomes evident. It is then that
obstacles which had blocked the process of transformation
are miraculously removed.
In the Sufi tradition the link with Khidr comes often
through dreams. Khidr-dreams come from the deepest,
most ancient recesses of the soul. Khidr in dreams is a sign
of a shift, a tremendous inner movement in the psyche.
Here is a dream of inner transition dreamed by a modem
seeker:

1 go to a funeral. I am just arriving and my

mother is there taking off her dripping silver-grey
coat. I take off my own coat and realize that I am
wearing the same silver-grey coat as wet and drip­
ping as my mother’s. There are many coats hanging
on coat stands but I do not see anyone else. The
funeral takes place in a hall which looks like a
lecture hall.
 Then the scene changes.
A few of us are sitting on the floor. We call for
Khidr. It is like a ceremony. He appears without
shape and I tell him to materialize. Suddenly I am
pulled into the center as if on a skateboard and he
grows out of myself. I cannot watch myself and feel
possessed. The only thing I can see of Khidr is a
golden-green light. What remains of myself is the
old potato when you dig out the new ones.
Then I wake up with a terrible fear. The wind
outside is strong and roaring and I try to calm down,
which is difficult and takes time. I feel hot like an
immersion heater.

“The wind outside is strong and roaring.” How tremen­

dous is the energy of transformation: in the brief moment
of a dream one dies like an old potato and is reborn anew.
A funeral is about to take place in the opening scene of the
dream. The dreamer and her mother are the only persons
there, but there are many coats hanging on coat stands, as
though there were many invisible participants in the fu­
neral. Many indeed: the multitude of relationships,
conditionings, and patterns which have shaped the lives of
mother and daughter. They have gathered there to witness
the death and burial of the primary bond between the two.
This bond which is so essential to us when we are small
becomes too narrow, too constricting, too suffocating
when we grow up. The relationship with the mother is the
most subtle, the most obstinate and long-lasting of all our
relationships. Before the colossal transformation heralded
by Khidr can take place, the dreamer has to grow out of the
uroboric relationship with her mother.
In the dream both mother and daughter wear the same
silver-grey coat. They both take their coats off. The coats
are dripping wet. It is raining. Rain is grace; rain carries the
touch of Khidr; rain is Khidr, the water of compassion
which is present at every new creation.17In the ritual of the
funeral both mother and daughter die and are bom anew.
The funeral symbolizes the crossing of the Sea of Death.
Then another ritual takes place in the dreamer's inner
chambers: a group of companions is sitting in meditation,
performing a very particular dhikr: they invoke Khidr.
This is not a practice in which the group normally engages.
It symbolizes something deeply unique to the dreamer. It
is her own mode of dhikr. The group invokes him, and he
comes. This is the rule: “He appears by whichever name
you call Him.” Khidr is shapeless, formless, as is the
teaching, as all teachers are: they have neither a name nor
a face, only a golden-green light. This is the light oibaqa
the light of eternal life— after the dark night offo n d ’, the
golden-green light of baqd'.
The dream preserves an ancient quality, a sense of
mystery, of the otherworldliness which lies at the opposite
side of the outer life. The dreamer is a woman who puts a
lot of effort in her search. The intensity of her quest-energy
is tireless, and yet in her dream she is pulled to the center
as if on a skateboard; she is gliding, effortlessly. After the
practice of invocation, which symbolizes the effort she
puts into the process, she is now moved effortlessly into
the center of her being. And there, out o f herself, Khidr
materializes. We search for a teacher out there, but the
outer teacher always points to the inner teacher. Ulti­
mately, the search is for the Khidr within, and the meeting
point of the two seas is where the two planes converge
within the core of our being.
 A powerful dream-experience such as this equals many
years of outer tribulations. But the dream does not promise
a tranquil outer life. Khidr symbolizes the realm of possi­
bility, opportunity, potentiality. The meeting of the two
seas means that, through the efforts of a sincere search, this
realm comes alive. What the dreamer has encountered in
the dream she will have to live out in the unfolding patterns
of her new life, blessed by the expansive grace of her inner
Khidr. The field—in which old, dead potatoes are the sole
reminders of the past—will yield a new crop.

Such a dream is often initiated through the grace of a

living teacher in whom the mystical tradition is perpetu­
ated. This is yet another way in which Khidr reveals
himself to seekers. The Water of Life which flows from the
Source of All Being becomes manifested concretely in the
living teacher. If Khidr is the archetypal life force behind
the spiritual journey, then the contemporary, living teacher
is the earthly manifestation of this life force. Without alink
with a teacher, real transformation may not come about
easily. Or if it does come about, it might dwindle after a
while. But when one becomes connected to a living teacher,
life cannot continue along its former routes. Things start
changing. All those who have been seriously interested in
spiritual life know this from their own experience. Most
difficulties on the path arise because, although the seeker
craves change, he does not really want to give up anything.
The teacher, like Khidr, has therefore a twofold aspect: he
comes across as a merciful, nourishing benefactor; but he
can also appear as a ruthless, uncompromising demolisher
of habits and thought-forms. He first seduces, then ex­
ecutes, then revives. Again and again on this never-ending
journey one returns to the point where the two seas meet,
where life and death converge. The contact with a teacher,
according to all mystical traditions, assures that the seeker
does not fall back into the sleep of unconsciousness and
mechanical existence. The teacher, like Khidr, is both the
reviver of dead souls and the destroyer of illusions. Like
Khidr, he too stands at the meeting point of the opposites
within oneself.
In the foreword to her book, Daughter o f Fire, Mrs.
Tweedie describes the way in which her teacher, Bhai
Sahib, forced her “to face the darkness w ithin” herself.
She writes:

He made me “descend into hell,” the cosmic

drama enacted in every soul as soon as it dares to lift
its face to the Light. It was done very simply, by
using violent reproof and even aggression. My mind
was kept in a state of confusion__ I was beaten
down in every sense till I had to come to terms with
that in me which I kept rejecting all my life.... Only
a heart which has become non-existent can resur­
rect, pulsate to the rhythm of a new life.
“...Ye have to die before you can live again.... ”18

The Teacher, like a finely tuned compass, always

points to the “mystical North.” North symbolizes death.
There is something ominous about the sunless, esoteric
North, like the ominousness of a black hole. But this is how
it's seen by a limited, three-dimensional perception. Viewed
from the dimension of the teacher, or of Khidr, this black
hole, the void symbolized by the North, is a pathway to a
higher level of consciousness, a door to the beyond.19
The teacher, then, points to a direction which is both
ominous and auspicious, frightening and exciting, warning
and promising. In deep states one may experience a chill­
ing awe (hayba) coupled with the sweetness of intimacy
(uns). We are terrified of letting go, and are scared stiff of
the teacher. And at the same time we are attracted, help­
lessly, hopelessly, like U lysses’ sailors, beyond and
against our will, to become annihilated in the killing grace
of the teacher.

The deeper we penetrate into the story of Moses and

Khidr, the more wondrous it becomes. This unnamed man
who carries the everlasting grace of God behaves in a
bizarre and obnoxious way. Once the encounter takes place
and Moses finds his teacher, he is in for a big surprise,
because everything Khidr does is against the deepest con­
victions, the deepest sense of morality which Moses exem­
plifies. Who is Moses and what does he represent? In the
Sufi tradition, nourished by Islamic prophetology, Moses
is a law-giver messenger (rasul), the highest rank of
prophecy. As a giver of Divine law he represents the
highest values of justice and morality.
But the teacher robs Moses of these values. The teacher
points out to Moses that his understanding of the values of
justice are based on human shortsightedness and on a
mistaken interpretation of appearances. Khidr acts three
times in a way that leaves Moses and all conscientious
listeners to this story in a state of shock. First, he drills a
hole in the boat of some poor fishermen, and they cannot
go out to sea to fetch in their daily catch. Then he comes to
a place where he and Moses are graciously invited into
some people’s house, and the next morning he kills their
young son. Third, he comes to a place where people are
offensive to both him and Moses, but he helps them build
a wall. At all these points Moses cannot contain himself; he
protests and demands an explanation. But this is contrary
to the deal which he has made with Khidr.
When Moses, after his long journey of quest, finally
found Khidr at the meeting point of the two seas, he asked
Khidr’s permission to follow him wherever he went. Khidr
agreed, but on one condition, that Moses should not ask
any questions, should not demand any explanations. Moses
accepted this condition, but in the face of the teacher’s
acts, he could not keep quiet.20
In Daughter o f Fire Mrs. Tweedie protests time and
again against her teacher Bhai Sahib’s behavior which,
from her angle, does her injustice. The disciple will be
pushed to rebel and protest against things he witnesses
which go against his convictions and values. The teacher
will tell the disciple, at times quite literally, that day is
night and night is day, will deliberately create situations of
confusion and misunderstanding. Khidr’s story must not
be taken on its mythical, symbolic level only. The meeting
with the teacher is about a concrete process of emptying,
total emptying, with no reservations. This is a difficult test
of endurance. It is also a crucial test of discretion.
 It is said that at the beginning of their encounter, the
disciple has the right to test the teacher. What does it
mean? How can the disciple, at the beginning of his
journey, when he is losing his grip on discrimination based
on former values, and when he has not yet acquired the
teacher’s values—how can he possibly make a congruous
judgment? A big paradox! But the disciple knows. Some­
thing in the disciple knows. Not the rational mind, which
becomes more and more useless, but something else. When
the heart finds out, as Moses did, that this is its meeting
point, that this is its homecoming, then it can let the teacher
take over, and a season of tests and hardships begins for the
disciple. A genuine teacher will never act without the
implicit consent of the disciple, which the teacher, the spy
of hearts, intuitively knows. Yet, archetypally, part of the
deal for the disciple, when confronted with the teacher’s
trickstery, is to refrain from asking “why,”
One of the long-lasting tests is this: whatever happens
around the teacher is never what the disciple expects. Like
Moses, who has to watch Khidr commit atrocious acts
without being allowed to ask for an explanation, so the
disciple. He must learn to acquire a new eyesight, to see
things with a new perception, from a new vantage point.
Because Khidr’s acts only seem arbitrary and mean. Be­
hind them lies a deeper vision of all three situations he and
Moses have encountered together.21
 At the meeting point of the opposites, in life-and-death
situations, the teacher is present and waiting. At the level
of a real meeting with the teacher, the discrimination
between the opposites falls away. Life and death do not
stand apart anymore. One implication of this is that teach­
ers do not really die. Their energy is immortal, since they
drink water from Khidr’s source. Teachers who belong to
the same path (tarxqa) create a living lineage (silsila)
which persists beyond their physical death. Sufi tradition
has preserved many anecdotes of meetings between past
and present generations of teachers. Such a communica­
tion, which defies physical death, is made possible through
the link with Khidr. The Naqshbandi path in particular has
become known for the fact that its teaching has been
transmitted regardless of historical connections.22 Hun­
dreds of years sometimes separate teacher and disciple.
That such timeless meetings are possible is the hallmark of
Khidr. Through Khidr’s work at the meeting place of the
time-bound and the timeless, communication is vertical
rather than linear. In the image of Khidr all teachers
become one; in the image of Khidr the teacher and the
teaching become one.
The Sufi tradition has distinguished a special group of
seekers: those whose sole link with the teaching is through
Khidr himself. There are those rare Sufis who do not have
a teacher in the flesh. Their only teacher, as in Moses’ case,
is Khidr. They have been given a special name: uwaysiyyun.
They are named after Uways al-Qarani, a contemporary of
the Prophet Muhammad, who lived in Yemen and, due to
his mother’s illness, could not make the journey to Medina
to join the companions of the Prophet. And yet he had a
direct link with Muhammad. The Prophet said that the
sweet scent of Uways wafted all the way from Yemen to
Medina, and thus their spirits had been at all times to­
gether.23 Such meeting in the spirit takes place also in the
case of seekers and teachers whose link with the mystical
tradition is via Khidr.
*

Of the many anecdotes transmitted by the Sufi tradi­

tion in which the Divine Knowledge is passed on to the
seeker through Khidr, here are two. They tell of the special
relationship between Khidr and two early mystics: the
11th-century Khurasani master Abu SaTd ibn Abi al-
Khayr, and the 9th-century master from Tirmidh, al-Haklm
at-Tirmidhi.
In his youth Abu Sa‘id committed himself to a very
austere and ascetic way of life. For days he would wander
alone in harsh and lonely places. His father, who was
concerned about him, would go after him and bring him
back home. And the Sheikh, to please his father, would
come home with him. But after he had stayed there a few
days, he desperately needed seclusion. Again he would run
away and hide in the mountains and the deserts. The people
of Meyhana, his hometown, would sometimes catch sight
of him wandering in those remote areas; they would see
him in the company of an “awesome old man dressed in
white.” Later, when Abu Sa‘id had attained his high mystic
rank, people asked him:

“O, Shaikh, those days we saw you, who was

the awe inspiring old man you were with?”
[Abu Sa'Id] replied, "That was Khezr—peace
be upon him!"2*
 In Lives o f Muslim Saints and Mystics Farid ad-Din
‘Attar tells how al-Hakim at-Tirmidhl, who did not have a
link with a living teacher, was trained by Khidr. At-
Tirmidhi, ‘Attar writes, wished to join some friends of his
who went on a journey in quest of knowledge. But his
mother fell ill, and since she was a widow, she pleaded with
him to stay with her. He did, but was very distressed. He
spent long hours alone in the cemetery weeping. Then a
luminous old man appeared in front of him one day, and
said:

“Would you like me to teach you a lesson daily? ...”

“1 would,” Termedhi replied.
“So,” Termedhi recalled, “every day he taught
me a lesson, till three years had gone by. Then I
realized that he was Khezr, and that I had attained
this felicity because I pleased my mother.”25

This legendary version told by the 13th-century poet

does not necessarily tally with biographical data which can
be compiled through other sources. Its importance never­
theless lies in the fact that it shows how the teaching is
transmitted via Khidr when a physical link does not mate­
rialize for the sincere disciple.26
The link with Khidr alludes also to the esoteric nature
of the mystical teaching. What is related in books or
transmitted orally is not the complete teaching. There are
things which belong to the realm of the unspoken. That
Khidr is also he who guards the true esoteric aspect of the
tradition can be gleaned from the following mysterious
story. This story, too, is told by ‘Attar. He relates it in the
words of Abu Bakr al-Warraq, allegedly at-Tirmidhl’s
closest disciple. Leaving his readers with a feeling of
mystery and awe, ‘Attar alludes here to the affinity of
Khidr and fish. Here is Abu Bakr’s account retold by ‘Attar:

Every Sunday ... Khezr would visit Termedhi

and they would converse on every matter..,. One
day Termedhi handed over to me many volumes of
his writings to cast into the [river] Oxus. I examined
them and found they were replete with mystic subtle­
ties and truths. 1 could not bring myself to carry out
his instructions, and instead stored them in my room.
I then told him that I had thrown them in.
“What did you see?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied.
“You did not throw them in,” he concluded.
“Go and do so.”
... I went back and threw the books into the
Oxus. 1 saw the river open up, and an open chest
appeared; the volumes fell into it, then the lid closed
and the river subsided. I was astonished.
“Did you throw them in this time?” Termedhi
questioned me when I returned to him.
“Master, by God’s glory,” I cried, “tell me the
secret behind this.”
“I had composed something on the science of
the Sufis, the disclosing of ... which was difficult
for human minds to grasp,” he replied. “My brother
Khezr entreated me. The chest was brought by a fish
at his bidding, and Almighty God commanded the
waters to convey it to him.”27
 Erod and the M ystical Quedt

Go, and love first.

Then come to me and l will show you the way.
Jami1

In reality, that which attracts is a single thing,

but it appears multiple.
Rural2

There is a part in us which feels that love is something

too intimate, too tender to be exposed. Love wants to hide,
to withdraw into its sacred shrine in the innermost of the
soul. It’s difficult to talk of love because love is a state of
melting. It's an experience in which opposites merge with
one another without boundaries, without differentiation,
tike colors in a potter's furnace. Words, on the other hand,
are clear-cut, differentiating, isolating. The sensitive words
of a poet-friend echo in my ears:

Put away your hands.

A bud cannot be opened
by a man.3

But love desires also to be revealed, to share its beauty, to

freely pour itself out into the open. This is why men and
women, young and old, modern and ancient, have given
expression to their experiences of love in poetry, in art, and
in relationships. I am surrounded by books which are the
evidence of the need men and women have to express their
most concealed desires, their most agonizing longing, in
the language of love poetry. Between the wish to remain
silent and the urge to make verbal love to love, the heart
oscillates no end. It’s the same on the path of mystical
quest: love seeks to express itself. “Love cannot be hid­
den,” Bhai Sahib, the Sufi teacher from Kanpur, says to his
disciple Mrs. Tweedier

What is in the heart becomes expressed out­

wardly. The exterior reflects the inner attitude; it
cannot be helped.... It is like love; it cannot be hidden.4

This is the way of love: between the silences it tries to

communicate, to say I love you, I am overcome by you, I
melt when / hear your name, I dissolve remembering your
nearness when you1refar. It wants to sing the praises of the
loved one as does the lover in the Song of Songs, that
tender, sensuous biblical love poem which mystics have
identified as a dialogue between God and the soul:

Behold, thou art fair, my love;

behold, thou art fair;
thine eyes are like doves.

And it wants to hear the same enchanted words echo back,

Behold, thou art fair, my beloved,

yea, pleasant (1:15-16).

The male lover can’t help exclaiming,

As the lily among thorns,

so is my love among the daughters.

while the female lover can’t help responding,

 As the apple tree among the trees of the wood,
so is my beloved among the sons (2:2-3).

Love wants a dialogue. In its very essence it’s an experi­

ence between two, the lover and the beloved, an experience
in which the lover is also the beloved, the beloved also the
lover. But who loves? And who is loved? Between whom
does the love-dialogue take place? “In the whole of the
universe there are only Two,” Bhai Sahib says to Mrs,
Tweedie:

In the whole of the universe there are only Two:

the Lover and the Beloved. God loves His Creation,
and the Soul loves God. In order to be able to create,
the One Being had to become two, and logically
there had to be a difference between the two. The
creation was only possible because of the two oppo­
sites; everything in creation responds either to posi­
tive or to negative forces, or vibrations. There is the
Sound and the Echo, the Call and the response to it,
Light and Darkness; without the opposing forces,
how could the world exist?5

Bhai Sahib’s words reflect a vision, a vantage point,

from which love is seen as a Divine quality that transcends
as well as includes the whole range of human experience.
Our separate, isolated experiences of love are included
within the all-encompassing love between God and cre­
ation. This all-encompassing quality is reflected in the
Qur’anic verse, “My Mercy encompasses all things”
(7:156). In this vision, God, by virtue of His all-encom­
passing Mercy, is a lover; we are beloved. It is love, the
ultimate faculty of Divine expression, which brings all
there is into existence. Existence then becomes seemingly
polarized between God (al-haqq) and creation (al-kkalq).6
Thus the most sublime—while also the most fundamen­
tal—attraction of opposites is between God and creation.
The attraction that arises between any other pair is but a
reflection of this fundamental attraction which lies, whether
we know it or not, at the root of our existence. This vision
goes beyond the understanding of some Greek philoso­
phers and their medieval followers, who saw Love, Eros,
as the divine power which attracts to each other the two
severed halves, male and female, which in a primordial
state of being constituted a whole, a hermaphrodite.7In the
Sufi vision of love, the two polarized entities which ago­
nizingly desire one another are God and creation, God and
the human soul, not one half of a human being and its
complementary half.
Bhai Sahib’s words also imply that the love between
God and man is not to be taken on a metaphoric level. It is
not a mere poetic metaphor, nor an allegory, nor a symbol
alluding to something ineffable, unspeakable. It is sub­
stantial, potent, and real. Sufis have lived and realized,
consciously and with surrender, the burning, living reality
of the love between God and the human soul: “In the whole
of the universe there are only two: the Lover and the
Beloved.”
The mystical vision of the all-embracing love was
formulated by the 13th-century mystic Ibn al-‘Arabi in all
its boldness and magnitude. He says,
 The Breath of the All-Merciful made the cos­
mos manifest in order to release the property of love
and relieve what the Lover found in Himself. So He
knew Himself through witnessing in the Manifest.8

God is qualified by love for us, and love is a

property that demands that he who is described by it
be merciful toward himself__ So nothing emerges
from Him except the mercy “which embraces all
things” (7:156). It extends to the whole cosmos, that
which is and that which has not yet come to be.9

What does it mean “to release the property of love and

relieve what the Lover found in Himself?” First and fore­
most it means that love is primary. At the beginning there
is love; then, consequently, there are lovers. We can
attempt to understand it from the level of our human
experience of love: when we carry love within us we will
ultimately need to project it into something, into someone,
into another. This is the only way by which we can be
relieved of the burden of carrying this love, all coiled and
hidden, alone. The most obvious instance is erotic, sexual
love, when a powerful urge forces us to release the surge of
libido. This act is always heightened by being recipro­
cated, by conveying a “dialogue.” The erotic drive, by its
very nature, desires to find a release in another. Through
the activation of love-desire, human lovers too become
procreators. New creations come into being. But the need
to “release” the love in us reveals itself also in other
creative manifestations. A mother knows that during the
nine months of pregnancy she becomes a container for a
new life which grows inside the darkness of her womb in
suspension, until the time is right for it to push itself into
the outer world in a cry and a sigh of relief. Everything we
produce — a piece of furniture, an architectural structure,
a drawing, a letter, a book—emerges from an initial drive,
an initial idea, initial love.
This is the natural scheme of things, but the lower
reflects the higher; as above so below. The relationship
between God and creation springs from the same erotic-
creative principle. The externalization of Divine love is
seen by Ibn al-‘ArabI as an exhalation—nafas— as a
“breathing-out” of God’s uroboric love into an “other.”
This is how creation comes into being. The universe and all
that exists come into being in an explosive Divine exhala­
tion which is alluded to in orgasmic terms. God’s love
which was folded within itself pours out in a tremendous,
potent sigh o f relief which releases His creative energy.
Ibn al-‘ArabI writes:

“Giving relief” is to eliminate ... constriction

(diq)__When the possible thing knows its possibil­
ity while in the state of nonexistence, it is distressed,
since it yearns for the existence allowed by its reality.10

As long as God’s attributes, names, and actions are in a

state of potentiality—“possibility”—Mercy (rahma), which
is the keynote of all there is, cannot be activated, has not
been “breathed out.” But then, in an act of merciful out-
breath, the creative energy contained in God’s powers, or
names, comes into manifestation: “Through the Breath of
the All-merciful God gave relief to the divine names.”11
The “black hole,” to use a contemporary image, in which
everything was held in constriction, exploded into the
myriad of life forms which make the created, “breathed -
out” universe:
 Through the All-merciful Breath God relieves
every distress in His creatures.12
«■
The All-Merciful relieves this [constriction]
through His Breath, since He brings the possible
thing into existence. Hence His “giving relief’ is
His elimination of the property of nonexistence
within the possible thing.13

Creation is not a singular event which took place in

some distant past time. It goes on all the time, on many
levels. Each breath is a new creation; each breath is a new
creative force. An out-breath, a sigh, is also the exclama­
tion which comes out spontaneously at the climactic point
of the erotic act without which nothing can come into
existence. The breath of the All-merciful (nafas ar-rahman)
is thus seen by Ibn al-‘ArabI as both an orgasmic sigh of
relief and as that which breathes life. Creation, therefore,
is at one and the same time the act and the product of the
Divine erotic energy. God created the universe as a product
of the primordial love contained in His essence. Creation,
God’s love-child, is the manifestation of God’s hidden
powers, as expressed in the tradition “1 was a Treasure but
was not known. So I loved to be known, and I created the
creatures and made Myself known to them. Then they
came to know Me.”14

Ibn al- ‘Arab! makes explicit the analogy between God

and man by reiterating that the merciful breath of love
through which everything comes into existence is all-
encompassing:

Since man comes into existence upon the Di­

vine Form, he finds confinement intolerable. So God
relieves that in him through this All-merciful Breath,
inasmuch as His breathing is a property of the Love
by which He described Himself in the saying, “I
loved to be known.” God makes man manifest through
the All-merciful Breath. Hence this Divine Breath­
ing is identical with the existence of the cosmos,
and the cosmos comes to know Him as He desired.
So the cosmos is identical with mercy, nothing else.15

Mercy, rahma, derives from a root in Arabic which con­

nects it with the word for womb, rahim. Womb, as also the
linguistic form for rahma, is feminine. The thrust and the
outpouring of the erotic energy are male. In an Islamic
myth which derives from more ancient mythologies, the
creative, cosmic male energy is envisaged as the primor­
dial “Pen,” qalam, with which God “writes” the destinies
of all created beings in the Book of Creation, in the Mother
of Books (umm al-kitab).16 The undifferentiated Being,
which was when nothing was, has been envisaged as
holding in the confinement of Non-being both feminine
and masculine within Its unmanifested essence. It holds
within Itself both Mother and Father, both womb and pen.
This analogy, by reflection, stretches down also to our
human experience. We, too, hold this polarized pair within
our being. We, too, before differentiation takes place in us,
hold both masculine and feminine together in a coil. By
loving another we become liberated—in the same way that
God, by creating us, releases Himself from His uroboric
“aloneness”—from holding these powerful opposites alone,
in ourselves. The direct experience of these opposites in
us— in differentiation—has an explosive, ecstatic momen­
tum. Here is a record of a personal experience which
helped me to understand the potency of these inner oppo­
sites:

I was sitting in a small, quiet room with a loved

one. Suddenly, in front of me, to the left, my eye
caught an ink bottle on a book-shelf. For some rea­
son the sight of the innocent ink bottle aroused in
me a strange state of agitation. All of a sudden I
couldn’t breathe. 1 started trembling. I was over­
come by a powerful emotion which had surfaced
without warning from within. In this emotional
state—which I could assimilate only in hindsight,
when I cooled down—I was the ink bottle, concave
and full of a dark, mysterious fluid, in a state of
waiting, openness, and receptivity in an immobile
silence. Then, right above the ink-bottle, I “saw” a
quill—one-pointed, sharp, purposeful, slowly com­
ing down towards “me” to dip itself in my ink. And
all at once I was the ink bottle, waiting in still
suspension, I was the ink, and I was also the pen.
And in the split-second when the quill in my free-
flowing phantasy dipped its tip into the ink, in
that split-second, I experienced a shattering up­
heaval on many levels. I was on the brink of losing
consciousness.

Only after many days could I understand the meaning

and numinosity of this experience. Beyond its obvious
sexual interpretation there lay forme the real experience of
the pure, differentiated male and female identities in me.
This state of polarity, of total separation o f the opposites,
created such a yearning each for the other that its outcome
was far beyond the capacity of the body to hold together.
It created an inner explosion.
This archetypal experience, in hindsight, clarified for
me also the powerful symbolism of writing, words, letters,
sounds, verbal expression—an important aspect of many
mystical systems— as the mysterious product of this inner
intercourse.17
Thus I was given an insight into the mystery alluded to
by the vision of creation by word, by the Divine Logos, so
intrinsically interwoven into the fabric of the three reli­
gions which have made our culture—Judaism, Christian­
ity, Islam. I also understood why the Sufi tradition is full
of Eros, why it revolves ceaselessly around love, referring
to itself as the Religion of Love (in Persian kisk-i mehr). It
became clear to me, from the living reality of my own
experience, why for Sufis the mystery of love has always
included a strong element of passion, ‘iskq; why all great
Sufi poets and teachers have implied time and again that
'ishq, love-desire, passionate love, is not a mild pietistic
affection or ideal, nor a dreamy, sentimental, poetic meta­
phor, nor a refined, philosophic concept. It is a crude,
ruthless, and glorious reality which pervades all levels of
being, body and soul, and demands complete receptivity,
sincerity, attention, and responsibility. 'Ishq cannot be
taught, cannot be preached; its potency can only be expe­
rienced. This is why one finds many allusions to the virility
of prophets. The following passage by al-Haklm at-Tirmidhl
illustrates this point:

The prophets, peace be with them, have been

given a greater amount of sexual potency [than ordi­
nary men] due to [the power of] their prophecy. This
 is because when the chest becomes filled with the
light [of prophecy] this light overflows to the veins,
and the psyche (nafs) and veins become aroused,
and they awaken desire with all its potency. The
energy of desire becomes potent through [the joint
activity of] the heart and the psyche.18

And Bhai Sahib, in an answer to a question of a disciple,

explains:

A man who is impotent can never be a Saint or a

Yogi. Women too can be impotent. The Creative
Energy of God which manifests itself in its lowest
aspect as procreative instinct is the most powerful
thing in human beings, men and women alike.19

It is from the level of my experience that the words of Ibn

al-‘Arabi have become meaningful to me:

The Breath of the All-merciful bestows exist­

ence upon the forms of the possible things, just as
the human breath bestows existence upon letters.
Hence the cosmos is the words of God in respect to
this Breath, as He said, “His word that He cast in Mary”
(Qur’an 4:171), a word which is the very entity of
Jesus. God reported that His words will not be
spent, so His creatures will never cease coming into
existence and He will never cease being a Creator.20

Breath, sound, letters, words, prophetic messages, po­

etry— all these expressions reflect the mystery of exist­
ence within nonexistence, of manifestation within Noth­
ingness, of the unspeakable and the spoken. “The root
principle of all things is speech and words,” writes Ruml.
“Speech is the fruit of the tree of action.... God most High
created the world by a word.
 His command when He desires a thing, is to say
to it ‘Be!' and it is.”11

At the same time, facetiously, Rumi says also this:

When you say, ‘In this present age words are of

no account,’ you negate this assertion also by means
of words. If words are of no account, how is it that
we hear you say that words are of no account? After
all, you say that also by means of words.22

Yet in the same vein, Rumi says also this:

These words are for the sake of that person who

is in need of words in order that he may understand.
But as for the man who understands without words,
what need has he of words? The man ... who hears a low
sound, what need has he of shouting and screaming?23

The polarity of male and female, abstention and action,

nonexistence and creation, silence and utterance, essence
and form reflects a mystery which pervades our lives. To
hold these opposites together means to live a paradox, to
touch the Mysterium Coniunctionis, to bring about a coin­
cidence of opposites.

Love between two human beings, or for that matter

between any pair in which the attraction of opposites is
constellated, reflects the love between God and creation.
When manifested, this attraction is activated by the beauty
of the created form and revolves around it: “Contemplation
of the Reality without formal support is not possible,” says
Ibn al-‘Arabi.24 Rumi, too, has pointed out that the seeker
must not ignore, nor deny, the physical, sensual side of his
being. He says:

The physical form is of great importance; noth­

ing can be done without the consociation of the
form and the essence. However much you may sow
a seed stripped of its pod, it will not grow. Sow it
with its pod and it will become a great tree. From
this point of view the body is fundamental and nec­
essary for the realization of the divine intention.25

And Mahmud Shabistari, a 14th-century Sufi poet

from Herat in Afghanistan, explains the nature of this
mysterious conjunction between God and man, essence
and form, in The Secret Rose Garden:

... From the unseen world descends

Heavenly beauty,
And plants its flag in the city
Of earthly fairness,
Throwing the world’s array into confusion;
Now riding the steed of comeliness,
Now flourishing the sword of eloquence,
And all alike bow down,
Saints and kings, dervishes and prophets.
Swayed by the charm of Beauty’s fascination.26

This conjunction may create confusion and bewilder­

ment in the heart and psyche of the seeker who has been
touched by human beauty and affection and yet feels that
these are not the real objects of his search. This confusion
is, in fact, one of the main problems on a mystical path
which emphasizes ‘ishq. Passion is an energy necessary
for the journey, but it can also become a test, the cause of
misunderstandings, abused in relationships. Like any en­
ergy it can be conserved or wasted. This is how a modern
seeker tenderly expresses her bewilderment:

How shall 1 know when we meet?

You will open your mouth to speak,

words will become birds and fly
directly to heaven
but that is not the sign.

Your voice will run over me like honey

enter through the pores of my skin
till each cell opens
a sweet-centred flower
but that is not the sign.

Nor is the drum-beat

at the source of the waterfall,
nor the flame
at the source of the drum-beat.27

Rumi addresses precisely the same bewilderment, which

has beguiled so many seekers after truth, in the following
revealing quatrains:

They try to say what you are, spiritual or sexual?

They wonder about Solomon and all his wives.

In the body of the world, they say, there is a Soul

and you are that.

But we have ways within each other

that will never be said by anyone.18
 You say you have no sexual longing any more.
You're one with the one you love.

This is dangerous.
Don’t believe that I have a love like that.

If one day you see a picture of how you think,

you’ll hate yourself, openly.29

At night we fall into each other with such grace.

When it’s light, you throw me back
like you do your hair.

Your eyes now drunk with God,

mine with looking at you,
one drunkard takes care of another.30

Yet if it’s the heart’s destiny to become open through

love, it has first to be ready to bleed in the operation.

In one of the most profound and moving love stories in

Sufi literature, an old man falls desperately in love with a
young woman. The man is not only old in age (in Arabic
skaykh) but, due to his wisdom and religious devotion, has
become the spiritual guide (Sheikh) of many. In The Con­
ference o f the Birds ‘Attar tells the story of this poor
Sheikh, Sheikh San‘an, in order to demonstrate how the
quest after Truth requires a genuine, uncompromising, at
times shattering experience of love. The seeker must
traverse the Valley of Love, the second of the seven valleys
of the mystical journey. This experience overrides all
previously accumulated knowledge and convictions. The
love of the Sheikh, who has been steeped in Muslim lore,
for a Christian girl, an impossible, unrequited love, ruins
the Sheikh. It robs him of everything he has gained, has
stood for, everything he has cherished, has believed in, has
devoted his life to. It robs him of his status, of the respect
others hold for him. It leaves him with nothing, a poor old
man on the brink of insanity, on the threshold of death. But
there is no way he, a sincere seeker, can take a short-cut,
can avoid passing through this terrible valley. Nothing can
open the heart and make it bleed but a true experience.
Nothing can unravel the secret of the rewardlessness of
earthly love but an unreciprocated, failed love. In his
agony the old man casts away his home, his beliefs, his
religion, his customs, his friends, his disciples, and throws
himself abjectly on the doorstep of his beloved. Here are
some verses which tell his story:

When gloomy twilight spread its darkening

shrouds—
Like blasphemy concealed by guilty clouds—
His ardent heart gave out the only light,
And love increased a hundredfold that night.
He put aside the Self and selfish lust;
In grief he smeared his locks with filth and dust
And kept his haunted vigil, watched and wept,
Lay trembling in love's grip and never slept.
“O Lord, when will this darkness end?” he cried,
“Or is it that the heavenly sun has died?
Those nights I passed in faith's austerities
Cannot compare with this night’s agonies;
But like a candle now my flame bums high
To weep all night and in the daylight die....
Love consumes me through this endless night—
I yield to love, unequal to the fight,”31
Through the sincere prayers of a friend (an allusion to a
wall, the friend of God) and through the grace of the
Prophet Muhammad, the Sheikh is redeemed. A new vi­
sion of truth and meaning is revealed to him and restores
his composure. He experiences a true tawba, a true repen­
tance. And now his counterpart, his anima, his ruthless
beloved, at last awakens. At last, through a dream-vision,
his ardent love finds an echo in her heart. She wakes up to
the depth of her own love and starts her own wandering in
the desolate wilderness in search of him. Here are ‘Attar’s
I- 4

verses:

She woke, and in her heart a steady light

Beat like the sun, and an unwonted pain
Throbbed there, a longing she could not restrain;
Desire flared up in her; she felt her soul
Slip gently from the intellect's control....
She had no friend and found herself alone
In an uncharted world; no tongue can tell
What then she saw—her pride and triumph fell
Like rain from her..,.
Her frame was weak, the heart within her bled,
But she began the journey to her sheikh,
And like a cloud that seems about to break
And shed its downpour of torrential rain
(The heart’s rich blood) she ran across the plain.32

But the story ends with a twist. This is not a romantic poem.
The human experience of love rends open the lover’s heart
for that other, transcendent love, which is as passionate
and uncompromising as the earthly one—love for the
Divine Beloved. As she meets the Sheikh, she realizes that
her true desire is not for earthly gratification of love. She
discovers that it’s her soul which has awakened. And it’s
this yearning of the soul for God that lovers— 'dshiqun,
men and women seeking after essential truth—must in the
end realize, a realization which the poet expresses through
the last words of the dying woman:

... Then, as her comely face

Bent to his words, her heart began to feel
An inexpressible and troubling zeal;
Slowly she felt the pall of grief descend.
Knowing herself still absent from the Friend.
“Dear sheikh," she said, “I cannot bear such pain;
Absence undoes me and my spirits wane.
I go from this unhappy world; farewell
World’s sheikh and mine—further I cannot te ll... ”
And saying this the dear child ceased to live.
The sun was hidden by a mist—her flesh
Yielded the sweet soul from its weakening mesh.
She was a drop returned to Truth’s great sea;
She left this world, and so, like wind, must we.33

When the orientation of transcendent love dawns in the

seeker’s soul, it calls for responsibility in behavior. From
a youth possessed by erotic, overflowing ecstasy, the
seeker grows into manhood (rujuliyya) which knows how
to contain the erotic energy. In the old Sufi circles which
existed all around the Mediterranean, in Mesopotamia and
in Central Asia, where women were mostly kept from
associating with men, erotic love manifested itself very
often among men. Beardless, effeminate youths (murd)
were deliberately made part of the scene within Sufi
groups in order to awaken the hearts through the contem­
plation of the Divine beauty reflected in the face of a
human being. Love-desire for these angelic, probably
quite lustful youths became a predominant theme in Sufi
poetry, and the boundaries between earthly love and divine
love, at least on the poetic level, became blurred. Conven­
tional poetic allusions to the beloved's ravishing beauty
through physical imagery, and the erotic verbal playful­
ness between lovers are apparent in the following qua­
trains by Hafez, the prince of Persian Sufi poets:

Like on lute, my fingers stray over your curls and play,

my heart and your lips are tuned in harmony all day;
your mouth, this sweet pistachio nut, is my daily food;
Lord, my wounded heart in a state of hunger does stay.34

Yusuf, the Biblical Joseph, the youth whose beauty is

proverbial in both the Jewish and the Muslim traditions,
became the symbolic manifestation of God’s Beauty—
jamal, the Divine attribute which is attested to in the
tradition “God is beautiful, and He loves beauty.”35Joseph,
a prophet in Muslim prophetology, has been endowed with
many spiritual virtues. At the same time he is also de­
scribed as possessing such physical beauty that every man
and woman who set eyes on him was overcome to the point
of self-oblivion.36 In Egypt, where he was sold as a slave,
Yusuf was taken into the household of Zulaikha, a willful
Egyptian princess. When she saw him, Zulaikha’s passion
was kindled, but in the face of his pious abstention, she
became inconsolable. Countless versions and couplets,
mainly in Persian, use the love-story of Zulaikha for
Yusuf—a story of frustration, tribulation, perseverance,
abstention, and triumph—as an allegory of the human
passion for God. Here, for example, is how ‘Abd ar-
Rahman Jami, a 15th-century poet from Herat affiliated
with the sober (f) Naqshbandi path, describes the first
appearance of Yusuf in Zulaikha’s life. It happens in a
dream which foretells future events:

Closed fast in sleep [Zuleikha’s] outward eyes may lie,

Yet from her heart looks out another eye.
Sudden a youth comes to her from the door;
A spirit ’tis, I say a youth no more__
The cypress tall his slave in dignity.
As chains his ringlets, falling him around,
Both wisdom’s hand and foot of counsel bound.
Shone from his brow a light of brilliant ray,
The moon and sun before him prostrate lay....
Smiles shedding sweets upon his lips abode,
And from his mouth speech mixed with sugar flowed—
A dimpled apple from his chin was hung.
Or like a quince upon an apple strung.
With moles of musk was his cheeks’ rosebed dressed,
As crows that in the garden build their nest—
Silver his side and arms, a mighty pair,
Not so his loins, thin drawn out as a hair.
Upon his face Zuleikha cast one look....
To his fair form and pleasing traits as well
She with a hundred hearts a captive fell.37

In view of the power o f 'ishq, the literal consummation

of erotic passion within Sufi groups presented one of the
gravest pitfalls for the mystical quest. Therefore the mas­
ters were strict and explicit: no “acting out,” no consum­
mation of the love-desire was allowed between adepts.
Celibacy has never been advocated in Sufi etiquette, but
neither has promiscuity. Most Sufi adepts have been mar­
ried men and women who have maintained their erotic
relationships within the warmth of the marital container.
From the point of view of spiritual attainment, erotic
“acting out" was considered severe and dangerous, not
only for young disciples, but also for those on higher stages
of the spiritual journey. ‘Ishq had to be contained; drunk­
enness (sukr) had to be held in check within mature sobri­
ety (sahw). In his Epistle, al-Qushayri, the 11th-century
master from Nishapur, writes unequivocally,

One of the gravest tests on this path is the com­

pany of young men (ahddth, murd). He who is tested
in this way is considered by the consensus of the
Masters as one who has fallen out of God’s grace ,..
even if he is endowed with a thousand wondrous
experiences__ The heart must never be attached to
the created.... Someone is quoted as saying: “1 stayed
in the company of thirty sheikhs who had all at­
tained the stage of substitutes (abddl), and all of
them, upon my taking leave of them, admonished
me and warned me of indulgence in the company of
young men.38

Such seems to be the final word with regard to Eros. In

the end, here is where the crucial test lies: not in the denial
of erotic passion and human sensuality and phy sicality, but
in the understanding of the deeper nature of the erotic
energy, and consequently in the voluntary effort that seek­
ers make to use the earthly to open a door to the transcen­
dent, the created to the Non-created. Where weakness lies,
there strength is to be found. This is why according to Sufi
understanding the complete man—al-insan al-kdmil—
stands on a higher level in the hierarchy of being than the
angels. Angels worship God with devotion; they are pure;
they are devoid of lusts and temptations, which are the
effect of the physical clay-nature of man. As for mankind,
“In their natures I have mixed together the crudeness of
earth with the fire of emotions,” God is purportedly saying
in a tradition recorded by al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi. “But in
spite of this they find in the depths of their hearts the light
of love, compassion, and remorse, and this is their greatest
merit. In spite of their lower selves, in spite of temptations
which constantly surround them, they remember Me with
fear, adoration, and longing. In their repentance they cry
their hearts out to Me and plead for My Mercy. They are the
ones who truly deserve My nearness and loving intimacy.”39
To learn how to live within the power of desire for the
created and yet yearn for the Non-created means to make
the heart, which has become intoxicated with love, a
doorway to the Infinite.

y>y
 Dhikr: The Experience of the
Remembrance of God

/ sleep, but my heart is awake.

The Song of Songs 5:2
The heart is healed by the permanent remembrance o f God.
Al-Hakim al-Tirmidhl

remembrance of God, is both a practice and a

mystical state. As a mystical state it conveys a paradox:
although dhikr means “remembrance,” the ultimate experi­
ence which the practice of dhikr points towards is of a
forgetfulness, of forgetting everything but God. In a state of
complete absorption in the invocation of God’s name,
everything disappears from the orbit of perception, imagi­
nation, or comprehension. The mystic is absorbed in an all-
encompassing nothingness.
Dhikr is experienced on many levels. On the outermost
it’s a repetition of a Divine name, a mantra. Repetition is
basically a mechanical practice which is performed either
audibly, pronouncing the sacred name or a sacred formula
with the tongue (dhikr al-lisan), or soundlessly, focusing
inwardly on the name without articulation. But this is only
a preliminary stage of dhikr.
The mechanical repetition of God’s name prints a
“groove” upon the hearty the mystical vehicle of con­
sciousness. This groove is an antithesis to the grooves
which mechanical thinking creates upon the mind. Thus
permanent practice of dhikr helps the practitioner to si­
lence the ongoing process of circular thinking and focus
the attention on one point.
The heart, as we have seen in detail in chapter one, is
envisaged as a vehicle of consciousness which consists of
layers within layers, each layer deeper and finer than the
one which envelops it.1 When dhikr is practiced continu­
ously, it penetrates into the deeper layers of the heart and
they, like a bud, open and unfold. Through this practice a
process takes place in which the heart expands and is
refined, or polished, to enable it to become the place within
man in which the mystical secrets are witnessed. “The
Sufis,” says RumI, “polish their breasts with invocation
and meditation so that the heart’s mirror may receive
virgin images (from the Unseen world).”2
Sufis name this inner practice of dhikr “the remem­
brance of the heart” (dhikr al-qalb). Due to its depth,
ordinary, mental consciousness is often excluded from the
awareness of the “inner dhikr" and the practitioner may
become conscious of it only when the dhikr surfaces again
onto the outer planes. Thus a devotee may wake up from
sleep or from anesthetic to find himself repeating the dhikr.
The power of dhikr to penetrate such deeper levels of the
practitioner’s being is demonstrated by the following story,
which has been told in many versions:

Sahl [ibn ‘Abdallah at-Tustari]3said to one of

his disciples: Strive to say continuously for one day:
“O Allah! O Allah! O Allah!” and do the same the
next day and the day after that—until he became
habituated to saying those words. Then he bade him
to repeat them at night also, until they became so
familiar that he uttered them even during his sleep.
 Then he said: "Do not repeat them any more, but let
all your faculties be engrossed in remembering God!”
The disciple did this, until he became absorbed in
the thought of God. One day, ... a piece of wood fell
on his head and broke it. The drops of blood which
trickled to the ground bore the legend “Allah! Al­
lah! Allah!”4

In addition to the articulation of a sacred formula (or

text), dhikr means also the sacred formula or text as such,
in particular a sacred text which should be carefully lis­
tened to and committed to memory. It is in this sense that
Sufis understand the first dhikr to be God’s address to
mankind, “Am I not your Lord?” (alastu bi-rabbikum), to
which the uncreated souls responded with an affirmative
“Yes” (bald').
This “moment” before time, before creation, when the
souls of all human beings were held within the all-encom­
passing embrace of the Totality of Being, with no differen­
tiation, without boundaries, lies at the roots of the Sufi
tradition. It is nourished by a Qur’anic verse which states
the primordial relationship between mankind and God:

And when thy Lord took from the Children of

Adam, from their loins, their seed, and made them
testify touching themselves, ‘Am I not your Lord?’
They said, ‘Yes, we testify’ (7:172).

The vision which speaks through this verse is universal

and timeless. It has become known in the Sufi tradition as
“the Day of the Covenant” (yawm al-mithaq). In this
covenant a relationship is established between God and
mankind, a relationship built upon a bi-polar foundation:
the acceptance of God’s Lordship (rububiyya) and human
servanthood ( ‘ubudiyya) on the one hand, and the experi­
ence of God’s nearness on the other. Sufi mystical knowl­
edge (ma'rifa) is based on the memory which awakens in
the heart through contemplating the message conveyed in
this verse.
Al-Junayd, the master of the 9th-century Sufi circle in
Baghdad—probably the first circle (halqa) of mystics
named Sufis— writes:

In this verse God tells you that He spoke to

them at a time when they did not exist, except so far
as they existed in Him. This existence is not the
same type of existence as is usually attributed to
God’s creatures; it is a type of existence which only
God knows.... Embracing them He sees them in the
beginning when they are non-existent and unaware
of their future existence in the world. The existence
of these is timeless.5

For the mystic, all that unfolds in life bears the stamp
of this moment. Life’s goal becomes simply this: to return
to the very beginning (in Arabic al-ma ‘ad ila -l-mabda'),
to return to the dawn of existence, to return to the Source
of Being, to return home. The goal and purpose of the
mystic (al-‘arif) is to return to the state in which he was
before he was created. Al-Junayd formulates this state­
ment in the following classic passage:

What is the unity (tawhid) of the mystics? That

the servant be as a lifeless body in front of God... in
a state of*annihilation (fand’) from the self (nafs)
and from people’s expectations devoid of sense-
perception and bodily movement, so that Truth (al-
haqq) may fulfil what It had willed for him, namely:
that his end will return to his beginning, and that he
 be as he was before he was__ Unity means to come
out of the confinement of temporality into the spa­
ciousness and the expanses of tim elessness
(sarmadiyya).6

The primordial dhikr pronounced in that timeless time

became imprinted on the hearts of all men and women, and
in the practice of dhikr it is remembered repeatedly.
Ruwaym Abu Muhammad, a 9th-century Baghdadi Sufi of
al-Junayd’s circle, sums this up in the following passage:

The people heard their first dhikr when God

addressed them, saying, “Am 1 not your Lord?” This
dhikr was hidden in their hearts even as their testi­
mony [of God’s Lordship] was hidden in their intel­
lects. So, when they heard the [practiced] dhikr, the
things hidden within their hearts appeared, and they
were ravished, even as the things hidden in their
intellects appeared when God informed them of [His
Lordship] and they believed.7

Thus the path, or rather the soul awakened through

remembering, demands of the seeker an uncompromising
commitment to re-enact the unequivocal “Yes” with which
it testified to God’s Lordship on the Day of the Covenant.

In the practice of dhikr, seekers have been given a tool

whereby the inner layers of the heart gradually open and a
new state of consciousness is tasted. This state differs from
the linear, horizontal perception of time, space, and logical
sequence. A modem seeker who has committed herself to
a traditional forty-day retreat (khalwa) comments on the
effect of repetitive dhikr which she practices as an integral
part of her experience:

I should do a lot of zhikrs, but what is a lot? My

usual approach to life is intellectual and cognitive,
whereas zhikrs work on a completely intuitive level.
Here we are dealing with other dimensions in which
“reason is bondage” and where the idea is to leave it
behind.8

Dhikr and meditation (muraqaba), two interrelated

practices, produce an experience of timelessness free of
the change and variegation (talwin) which are the effect of
time. This experience is echoed in the following verses by
Rumi:

At the time when in the company of that selected

group I began to meditate,
Stepping out of myself.
The soul got rid of all time that turns youth into age.
All change arises out of time:
He who gets rid of time gets rid of change.
Oh, my heart, for a while be out of time, get rid of change.
Oh, my heart, for a while be out of time to be free
from “how” and “why.”
Time does not know the nature of Timelessness,
Because only Wonder can lead to it.9

A repeated experience of the timeless and spaceless

dimensions through dhikr develops a realization, intrinsic
to any mystical experience, that there exist more planes or
spheres of being than the ordinary mind can recognize.
Such an awareness explains why in the literature of most
mystical traditions one finds an abundance of visions and
poetic descriptions of the ascent of the soul through heav­
enly spheres, or its descent into the depth of the under­
world. These visions and images reflect the wonder and
awe with which mystics have experienced the timeless
travel through the manifold planes of existence.10
The archetypal experience of ascent which lies at the
foundation of the Sufi tradition is the “night journey” of
the Prophet Muhammad, alluded to in the Qur’an, sura
17:1, and known as the mi'raj (ascent) of the Prophet.
Experiences of ascent are recorded also by Sufis. One of
the earliest and best-known records of an ascent which
surpasses the ordinary sense of time and space is attributed
to Abu Yazid al-Bistami. In The Book o f Scintillating
Lights, a 10th-century compilation, the compiler, Abu
Nasr as-Sarraj, devotes several chapters to the commen­
tary of al-Junayd upon Abu Yazid’s baffling utterances
and descriptions of timeless and spaceless travels. The
following passage which is culled from this classic Sufi
source is one such description:

The first time I attained His Aloneness

(wahdaniyyatihi) I became a bird whose body was
of Oneness (ahadiyya) and its wings of Permanence
(daymumiyya). Then I kept on flying in the air of
“howness” (kayfiyya) for ten years, till I arrived at
an air [which surpassed] the former a hundred thou­
sand thousands fold. And still I kept flying until I
arrived at the space of Eternity (azaliyya) and there
I saw the Tree of Oneness (shajarat al-ahadiyya)__
And I looked and knew that all this was deception
(khud1a).li

The unexpected twist at the bottom line of that extraor­

dinary experience, a twist which in blatant irony turns its
magnitude on its head, means, according to al-Junayd’s
interpretation, that notwithstanding such altitudes as those
attained by Abu Yazid, the ultimate goal of the mystic is to
surpass concern for any conscious recognition of the expe­
rience, since “attention to and occupation with the obser­
vation of existence and the Kingdom appear as deception
when [the mystic] realizes the realities (haqa iq) of [God’s]
Singularity and absolute U nity.12Or, in other words: “The
men [who have reached] the ultimate goal [know that]
heeding to anything but God is deception.'13
Such an attitude, which tends to relativize mystical
experiences regardless of their numinous quality, is typical
of the Sufi tradition. It is congruous with the attempt to
direct the seeker towards an experience of dhikr so intro­
verted that it leaves behind almost no cognitive traces.
Since dhikr, when practiced correctly, penetrates one by
one the numerous inner layers of the heart, Sufi literature
accordingly enumerates also many degrees of dhikr. The
innermost recess of the heart, as has already been indi­
cated, is called sirr, “secret,” alluding to the introverted,
interiorized nature of true mystical experiences: they are
kept secret even from the conscious mind; they are the
place of intimate communication between the soul and
God, where nothing else has access. Such a multiple­
storied dhikr bears the stamp of the mystical, vertical, one-
to-one relationship of the soul with God.
Nevertheless, in most Sufi circles dhikr has been prac­
ticed overtly. The circle of disciples (halqa) would be
exposed to a “listening” (sama‘) to a reciter (qawwal), or
a musician, reciting or playing evocative passages or
melodies. The impact of this listening would then stir up
the emotions to such a degree that the body too would,
involuntarily, be forced to move and participate in the
inner experience. Or else the group would practice the
invocations of divine names and formulae together, pro­
nouncing the syllables in certain breathing rhythms, and
this too would produce strong emotional and physical
vibrations which would result in rapturous, ecstatic move­
ments, sometimes to the point of loss of consciousness.
Classical compilations such as The Book o f Scintillating
Lights report even death due to the impact of sam a' and
dhikr, especially in the case of novices (mubtadi'un,
muridun). Here is an example:

A certain youth used to accompany al-Junayd.

Whenever he listened to a dhikr he would cry and
yell. One day al-Junayd told him: “If you do it once
more you won’t be allowed to accompany me.” Ever
since, when al-Junayd spoke words of [esoteric]
knowledge, the face of this youth would alter, but he
would contain himself to such a degree that drops of
water would drip from every hair on his body. One
day he uttered a shriek, burst open, and expired.14

Rumi, who mastered, structured, and taught the art of

ecstatic dance, sees rapture as the response of the mystic to
an encounter with the bliss that emanates from the proxim­
ity of the Beloved. In his Dixvan he exclaims ecstatically:

It is a day of joy. Come, let us all be friends! Let

us take each other by the hand and go to the Beloved.
When we become stupefied in Him and are all one
color, let us keep going, dancing, toward the bazaar.
It is a day for all the beauties to dance—let us
close down our shops and all be idle.
It is a day for the spirits to wear robes of honor—
let us go as God’s guests to the mysteries.15
 Yet a group of 9th- and 10th-century Muslim mystics
from Nishapur, one of the major cities of Khurasan, em­
phasized at an early stage of the development of Sufism a
more rigorous interiorization of the mystical experiences
in general and of dhikr in particular. These mystics became
known as the Maldmatiyya, or ahl al-malama—those who
follow the Path of Blame. The Malamatis were concerned
with the fact that the lower self, the nafs, wants to own every
human experience, and thus claims ownership of any
accomplishment, including mystical states.16 When this
happens, they maintained, and it happens virtually all the
time, a one-to-one relationship with God is blocked. In the
attempt to eliminate the control of the nafs, they pursued a
path of “blame” (malama), incurring constant blame upon
their “selves.” This is why they were named Malamatis.
The Malamatis tried to eliminate any exposure to external
honor, which brings about conceit ( ‘ujb) and pretense
(iddi'd1). They chose therefore to conceal not only their
spiritual attainments but also the fact that they were pursu­
ing a path leading to mystical states. They attempted such
“concealment” in two arenas: the public and the private.
Thus—unlike most other contemporary Sufi groups—the
Malamatis refrained from wearing any clothes which would
distinguish them from other local Muslim citizens, and
avoided public auditions of dhikr known as sama' (often
translated as “spiritual concert,” since it included music,
recitation of verses, and ecstatic dance) which were prac­
ticed with great relish among other Sufi circles. In this they
laid the foundation for two rules which were later imple­
mented by the Naqshbandi path: first,"solitude in the
crowd” (khalwat dar anjuman) and second, "silent—or
hidden—dhikr" (dhikr khafiy)}1 The Malamatls tried to
practice dhikr in such a way that it would be hidden not
only from the public eye, but also from their own inner eye!
The sayings and principles of the Malamati teachers of
Nishapur were lovingly recorded by a later Nishapuri
teacher, Abu ‘Abd ar-Rahman as-Sulami (d. mid-11th
century). Through his maternal grandfather, as-Sulami
was a direct descendant of the early Malamatls, In a short
treatise in Arabic entitled The Malamatiyya Epistle (Risalat
al-malamatiyya), he wrote down dicta attributed to the
early Malamati teachers. The following passage is a chal­
lenging statement. It focuses on the layers of the heart
which are awakened, activated, and refined through the
practice of dhikr, while emphasizing the almost unattain­
able dimension of a fully interiorized dhikr:

One of their principles maintains four levels of

the remembrance of God: the dhikr of the tongue,
the dhikr of the heart, the dhikr of the “secret”
(sirr), and the dhikr of the spirit (ruh). When the
dhikr of the spirit is sound, the heart and' the “se­
cret” are silenced: this is the dhikr of contemplation
(muskahada). When the dhikr of the secret is sound,
the heart and the spirit are silenced: this is the dhikr
of awe (hayba). When the dhikr of the heart is sound,
the tongue is silenced: this is the dhikr of Divine
Grace. When the heart is heedless to the dhikr, then
the tongue takes over, and this is the dhikr of habit.
Each of these levels has a blemish. The blemish
of the dhikr of the spirit is that it be perceived by the
secret. The blemish of the dhikr of the heart is that
the lower self might take notice of it and admire it,
or that it might gain by it the reward of attaining a
spiritual rank,18
 Dhlkr

In this short and highly condensed passage the author

lists the levels of dhikr from the most interiorized out­
wards. By way of paraphrasing this statement, I find it
more convenient to look at the practice starting with its
most external, mechanical, habitual aspect. Thus in the
practice of dhikr prescribed by the Malamatis, one starts by
pronouncing the sacred nameA//dh. This level is practiced
either audibly or by a silent inner repetition of the external
form of the name as it is imagined by the mind. This is the
habitual or mechanical aspect of dhikr. Then comes a stage
in which the heart takes over. In this stage, awareness of
syllables and forms may become silenced to allow an
experience of bliss. This deeper, blissful level of dhikr
emanates from Divine Grace. Deeper and beyond the
boundaries of ordinary consciousness is the stage when
dhikr takes place in the “secret,” the innermost sirr, the
heart of hearts. This is an “experience” of numinous awe,
emanating from the Divine Tremendum. Then a deeper
level is reached which is identified as the level of spirit.
According to the Qur’an, the spirit (ruh) belongs to God
alone—“The spirit is of the bidding of my Lord”( 17:85).
“Bidding” renders the Arabic amr, an elusive term which
may mean also “business.” The spirit, the verse implies, is
God’s business, it is in God’s hands. It lies deeper even
than sirr. Its relationship to God is the most profound
mystery, never revealed either to prophets or to angels; yet
it seems to be available, in some sense, to sincere practitio­
ners of dhikr. This, we are told, is the dhikr of “contempla­
tion” (mushdhada). At this level, it seems, the spirit within
the one who is remembering—that counterpart within man
of the Divine Spirit—contemplates God in total cognitive
silence. It is also probable that by using mushahada, which
derives from the same root as shahidna—“we testify”
(allusion to Qur’an 7:172)— the Malamati teachers wished
to point to the Primordial Covenant, in the realization of
which man returns to the state he was before he was.
The Malamati teachers also say that all these stages of
dhikr have blemishes, are imperfect; in other words, it’s
hardly possible to achieve them in perfection. The “blem­
ish” of each of these levels is that the more external one
should perceive or register the dhikr. A total silencing
down of all outer and inner perceptions is very difficult to
achieve. Nevertheless, the ultimate goal of the practice is
formulated, or at least hinted at, by the Malamatis’ struc­
tural design of dhikr.

Dhikr (or in its Persian term yad kard) is one of eleven

principles which were laid down in the 13th and 14th
centuries by the Naqshbandi masters of Central Asia, and
which have distinguished the Naqshbandi path from most
other Sufi fraternities. Khwaja ‘Ubaidallah Ahrar, a vener­
able 15th-century master from Samarqand, has said that
“the real meaning of dhikr is inward awareness of God.”19
The origin of the first eight principles laid down by the
Naqshbandi masters is linked with the name of ’Abd al-
Khaliq al-Ghujduwani. So also is the teaching of dhikr.
Al-Ghujduwani, from a village near Bukhara, was one of
the four successors of the 12th-century master Yusuf al-
Hamadhani. It is from the latter that the lineage (silsila) of
the Masters of Central Asia, the Khwajagan—the forerun­
ners of the Naqshbandi path—originated. Al-Ghujduwani
taught his disciples the silent dhikr, the hidden dhikr of the
heart (dhikr khafiy). In manuals describing the Naqshbandi
path it is related that through his “ sp iritu a lity ”
(ruhaniyyatihi) ‘Abd al-Khaliq transmitted this teaching
to Baha’ad-Dln Naqshband, the eponym of the path, al­
though there are more than a hundred years between them:
al-Ghujduwani died in 1220, while Baha’ ad-Dln was bom
in 1318. Although five generations of masters separate
them, this “spiritual” link represents a legitimate aspect of
the Naqshbandi lineage where a master-disciple relation­
ship is not bound by contemporaneity. A deceased master
may work, after his physical death, through his “spiritual­
ity.” ‘Abd al-Khaliq himself was taught the silent dhikr by
Khidr, God’s unnamed servant who waits “where the two
*

seas meet” (majma' al-bahrayn), and who is the master of

those who may not have a flesh-and-blood teacher.20
The Naqshbandi sources tell how ‘Abd al-Khaliq hit
upon a Qur’anic verse which he could not understand:
“Call upon your Lord humbly and secretly” (7:54).21 Sens­
ing that a deep mystery lurked behind these words, he was
nevertheless at a loss to grasp their meaning, until Khidr
appeared to him and made him invoke the name of God
while under water. “If you want Troth as a drowning man
wants air, you shall get it in a split second.” Submerged in
water, ‘Abd al-Khaliq must have tasted what a drowning
man tastes. Yet at that moment he was immersed in the
remembrance of God, in total surrender, not minding
death. What he had experienced he sought to perpetuate by
teaching his disciples the silent dhikr—adh-dhikral-khafiy—
as one of the principles which from then on became the
hallmark of the path which followed on from him.22
The image of a man or a woman practicing dhikr while
totally immersed in the water of love reverberates also in
Mrs. Tweedie’s instruction for silent meditation, based on
her master Bhai Sahib’s teaching:

We must suppose that we go deep within our­

selves, deeper and deeper into our most hidden self.
There in our innermost being, in the very core of
ourselves, we will find a place where there is peace,
stillness and, above all, love__
After having found this place, we must imagine
that we are seated there, immersed into, surrounded
by the Love of God. We are in deepest peace__All
of us is there, physical body and all; nothing is
outside, not even a finger tip, not even the tiniest
hair. Our whole being is contained within the Love
of God....
Nothing will remain.23

Indeed, *Abd al-Khaliq’s authority with which he had

“spiritually” instructed Baha’ ad-Din to perform the silent
dhikr was so strong that the latter had to deviate from the
way dhikr had been practiced around his living teacher,
Amir Kulal:
t

Shortly before Amir Kulal died, he instructed

his companions to follow Khwaja Baha’ al-Din.
When his pupils and friends protested on the grounds
that Khwaja Baha’ al-Din had not practised public
dhikr, the Amir said: “In all his actions he is guided
by the Exalted Truth and not by his own will,”
Khwaja Baha’ al-Din Naqshband said:
“A special awareness arose in me when I began
to practise silent dhikr. That was the secret I
sought.”24
 A passage in an old text book which I found years ago
in an Arabic bookshop in Jerusalem explains the esoteric
way by which the silent dhikr and the name Naqshband are
associated:

The meaning of naqsh band is “to seal the im­

print”— naqsh means to engrave, to make an im­
pression, to imprint; band means to tie, to bind, to
seal. Its esoteric meaning is “to seal the impression
of the Form of Perfection upon the seeker’s heart.”
Up until the time of the Master Baha’ ad-DIn,
who was named Naqshband, the followers [of the
Path of the Masters] used to practice the dhikr si­
lently in solitude and audibly in groups. But the
Master ordered that they should practice it [at all
times] in silence. This he did because of an order he
had received from the “spirituality” of the Master
‘Abd al-Khaliq al-Ghujduwanl who was the [de­
ceased] master of [Baha’ ad-Din’s] masters in the
world of the journey [to God], [‘Abd al-Khaliq] and
his companions used to practice dhikr silently,
whether alone or in a group. Practiced in this way
their dhikr produced a deep impression on the hearts
of the disciples, and this impression was called
naqsh....
Naqsh is the form (i.e„ the blueprint) of that
which is impressed upon wax or any similar matter;
and band, namely the binding, is the permanent sub­
sistence of the impression without effacement.

The text then goes on to describe how the naqsh of

God’s Essence and Names was stamped upon the heart of
every man and woman in the day of creation, and explains
the efficacy of the silent dhikr in sealing it and in protect­
ing it from fading away:
 It is said that, when Adam and his progeny were
created, God's Forms were looked upon by the
tawajjuh of the Supernal Divine Essence without
“how" or “when.”

Tawajjuh— sitting face to face—is the esoteric method

by which the mystical teaching is transmitted from teacher
to disciple directly, by reflection, rather than through
speech.25

Thus Adam and his progeny came into being

with a special Form which bears the names of the
Divine “observer,” and which is predicated by His
attributes. It is by the essence of this Form that their
relationship [with God] is realized: as He has ac­
tions, so they have actions; as He has laws, so they
have laws imposed on others. It is in this way that
the impression (naqsh) of the Essence, the Attributes,
the Names, the Actions and the Laws were mani­
fested in the coming into being of Adam and his
progeny.
Some of Adam’s progeny, due to the predomi­
nance of the lower self upon the perfected Self within
them, have allowed the impression to fade away.
Others, however, have perfected the naqsh; they are
called Haqshbandis.26

Thus, the silentd/tt&ris the means whereby the naqsh—

the primordial impression imprinted on the soft, receptive
matter of the heart—becomes perfected. The text implies
that within the heart of every human being there reside not
only the counterparts of God’s Attributes, Actions, and
Laws, but also the counterpart of the Divine Essence
“without how and when.” These archetypal counterparts
which have been imprinted on the human heart from its
very inception have their blueprint in God’s Forms: “as He
has actions, so they have actions; as He has laws, so they
have laws imposed on others.” Moreover, not only the
“Forms”—attributes, names, actions, laws—are imprinted,
but the Essence too.
This is a bold idea which holds the key for the possibil­
ity of union between God and man: “It is by the Essence of
these Forms that [man’s] relationship with God is real­
ized.” This relationship is meant to be realized not in the
afterlife but in the hearts of living men and women. But it
requires of them a commitment to permanently practice the
dhikr in the way in which it was taught by Khidr to ‘Abd
al-Khaliq al-Ghujduwanl and by the latter to Baha’ ad-DIn.
For during man’s lifetime these divine impressions can be
either effaced or perfected and sealed forever. Perfecting
and sealing the divine images by which the hearts were
made is achieved through the practice of the silent dhikr,
This understanding of the efficacy of dhikr explains
why Sufi teachers have repeatedly said that there is nothing
of permanent value in a person’s life except the remem­
brance of God. In the same vein they have also said that
every moment that passes, every breath which is breathed
without remembering God is wasted. Sufis are taught to be
constantly in the state of remembering God. From the
vantage point of the ordinary mind such achievement
seems impossible: how can the mind remember to remem­
ber God in the midst of the multitude of tasks which it has
to perform? How can the mind fix its attention on more
than one thing at a time?
The key to this question may lie in the connection
which is made between dhikr and breath. The breath is the
most instinctive, and thus the most fundamental, manifes­
tation of the remembrance of God, since with the breath the
sound “hhhh”—which alludes to the Divine Hiddenness,
and which is articulated at the end of the sacred name
Allah—is instinctively aspirated. The repetition of the
sacred name or formulae is connected with the waves of the
breath, with the perpetual sequence of exhalation and
inhalation in conjunction with which the dhikr is per­
formed. Baha’ ad-Din Naqshband used to say: “The foun­
dation of this path is the breath” (mabniyy hddhd at-tariq
‘ala an-nafas), and ‘Ubaid Allah Ahrar reiterated that
“Most important on this path is observing the breath.”27
Observing the flow of the breath prevents the inner atten­
tion from falling into a state of heedlessness (ghafla), and
keeps the heart at all times present with God.

An early mystic whose name is linked both with the

Naqshbandi masters, especially Baha’ ad-DIn, and with
the Malamatls of Nishapur is al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi. A
contemporary of the latter, he knew and corresponded
with several of the teachers of Nishapur, although he did
not belong to their circle. He is linked with Baha’ ad-Dtn
Naqshband in the same way that Baha’ ad-DIn is linked
with *Abd al-Khaliq al-Ghujduwani, namely, through his
“spirituality.” The 9th-century mystic from the town of
Tirmidh, on the shores of the Oxus River in Transoxania,
lived five centuries before Naqshband. Yet Baha’ ad-DIn
acknowledged his link with at-Tirmidhi, asserting: “The
encounter face to face (tawajjuh) with the spirituality o f
Muhammad ibn ‘All al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi brings about
featurelessness (mahw as-sifa).... For the last twenty-two
years I have been following in the footsteps of al-Hakim at-
Tirmidhi; as he was featureless so am I now featureless. He
who knows it, knows."28
Similarly to the Malamatis and the Naqshbandis, at-
Tirm idhi too taught that the true mystical dhikr is the
silent dhikr of the heart. Here, to end, is how he describes
the stages of dhikr and its effect on different types of
practitioners:

Dhikr is the food of mystic knowledge. Mystic

knowledge is sweet and pure, and the heart is its
vessel and its treasure-trove__ In its essence dhikr
emanates from the realm of Divine Joy, and there­
fore, when it descends upon the heart it awakens
joy. If it hadn’t mingled with the joy of the lower
self, dhikr would have been complete and pure, but
when the self mingles with it, Divine Assistance
which flows from the Remembered is cut off, and
the dhikr is stranded in the turbid, murky joy of the
self.
Those who aspire to purity find pleasure in dhikr
alone, since their self has become the captive of
their heart. Their lower self is besieged, as it were,
by the mystical knowledge and is unable to move
freely in the pursuit of its own pleasure__

Outwardly, the mingling of self and dhikr may

appear as bodily movement: the performer of the
dhikr may be stirred to dance, or clap his hands, or
shake his head, or wave vigorously from side to
side—all these involuntary bodily movements point
to the fact that the agitated self has mixed its joy
with the dhikr of the heart.
 Inwardly the mingling of the self with dhikr
may result in the heart contemplating its own re­
membrance. This too points to an impure dhikr in
which the self is mingled, since remembrance is not
the same as the Remembered.

When the dhikr is performed by one who has a

“seat” and communion in the higher realms, then the
heart will stop contemplating the dhikr and its eyes
will contemplate the Remembered alone.
When the heart is absorbed in the Remembered
there is no room in it for contemplating remem­
brance.

Hearts vary in their ranks and stages: the hearts

of ordinary worshippers are imprisoned in midair.
They cannot soar very high because their earthly
desires pull them down.
The hearts of seekers soar and then stop, ac- -
cording to their ranks. Where they stop, there is
their rank. They too are held captive by their earthly
inclinations and are weighted down by desires.
The hearts of those who arrive stop by the
Throne. They too are held back by the residue of
desires in them, and they too cannot attain God’s
Place in His Kingdom.
But the hearts of the pure and the chosen reach
Him where He sits—they are the ones who have
perfect communion and pure dhikr. They are those
of whom Moses, peace be with him, spoke when he
said: “O God, are you near so I could commune with
you, or are you distant so I would call you?” God
said: “I sit with those who remember me” (and jalis
man dhakarani).29
 The Color o f Water

There is great joy in darkness. Deepen i t .

Sana*]1

The lovely forms and colours are undone,

And what seemed many things is only one.
Farid ad-Din ‘A(tar!

Q /n Sufi terminology “color” signifies a state: a state

of mind in general, or, more specifically, a mystical state.
Wateris an elusive element; its essence is fluidity; it cannot
be captured or held in time and space. Color and water come
together in an intriguing image by which the mystic is
described in Sufi literature.
Very early on in the history of Sufism, Sufis in the
various centers meditated upon the meaning of mystical
knowledge, ma ‘rifa, and the qualities of the mystic, al-
‘arif. The early Sufi compilations of the 10th and 11th
centuries contain many sayings on the nature of both. In
The Book o f Scintillating Lights, compiled in the 10th
century by Abu Nasr as-Sarraj, the following description
of the mystic is attributed to Abu Yazid al-Bistaml, the 9th-
century master celebrated for his ecstatic visions and
utterances:3

When asked to describe the characteristics of

the mystic, Abu Yazid said: The color of water is
the color o f his receptacle. If you pour [water] into a
white receptacle you will imagine it to be white. If
 you pour water into a black receptacle you will
imagine it black, and so also with yellow, red, and
the other colors. States shift the mystic between one
another, but his Lord is He who shifts the states
(muhawwil al-ahwal)*

This description of the mystic as someone whose color

is the color of water has always fascinated me. It presents
a kind of Sufi koan, a riddle worth pondering. What are the
different receptacles whose colors are reflected in the
water of mystical knowledge? And what, indeed, is the color of
water?
Imagine a world in which the only color is as
undistinctive and indescribable as the color of water—in
other words, a colorless world. As soon as I close my eyes,
colors rush forward in defiance. From the treasure-trove of
forms my imagination conjures up a kaleidoscope of im­
ages in many shades: a peacock’s tail with its brilliant
royal blues and turquoises; a rainbow majestic over a
greyish-purple sky in a shimmering landscape; the dance
of oranges, pinks, crimsons, blues, and greens in a Matisse
painting. Or the haunting numinosity of colors in a dream;
the tender lilacs, pinks, mauves, whites, and greens of
cherry trees in blossom; the volcanic explosion of a field of
blood-red poppies; the hundred shades of russet in autumn.
Or the dazzling yellow of a sea of sunflowers stretching out
for miles and miles in the flesh-pink soil of Andalusia.
Forms and colors are the primal matter of our visual
experiences whether sensory or imagined. Colors enrich
us. They shape and express our moods. My language
dwindles in the face of the richness of color, and when I
recall that there exists a myriad of shades and colors above
and below the range of our ordinary visual perception, I
become dumbfounded.5
One of the most ravishing experiences of forms and
colors that 1have ever had was watching sea life in the Red
Sea. Climb down a few steps into an underwater chamber
surrounded by glass walls, choose a point from which to
watch the spectacle which comes into view behind the glass
walls, or wander around peeping out from different van­
tage points— an amazing parade of multifarious life-forms
passes silently by: multi-colored, bizarre fish, sea urchins,
eels, water snakes, jellyfish, huge cauliflower-like sea
creatures extending long arms ready to devour whatever
comes into their orbit, tiny sea-horses, petrified stars, the
coral reef which houses this abundance—all defy ordinary
perception and description. I became drunk, transported,
by this silent, kaleidoscopic, hallucinatory procession. All
that glory, vivacity, inventiveness, gaiety, ugliness, ruth­
lessness, playfulness, and solemnity which floated along
the glass walls gave me a unique and unforgettable glimpse
into the realm of Divine Beauty and Majesty.
In contrast, consider a feather of a jay, so minute that
you have to take great care not to damage it when holding
it in your palm. Brownish-grey, rather ordinary looking on
one side, but on the other side such an unexpected exquisite
pattern of lavender and white stripes. Even the minutest
design reflects the singular craftsmanship of the Divine
Creator.
Colors not only reflect the beauty of the outer world,
but can also manifest as inner perceptions. Even blind
people can “see” colors. The following testimony is both
moving and enlightening. It was written by Jacques
Lusseyran, a hero of the French Resistance, who had
become blind at the age of seven and henceforth developed
an inner perception of color which had become no less,
perhaps even more, vibrant and gratifying than the lost
sensory perception. He writes:

Sighted people always talk about the night of

blindness. But there is no such night, for in every
waking hour and even in my dreams I lived in a
stream of light....
Colors, all the colors of the rainbow survived.
For me, the child who loved to draw and paint,
colors made a celebration so unexpected, colors of
things and of people. My father and mother, the
people I met or ran into in the street all had their
characteristic color which I had never seen before I
went blind__
It was the same with love.... The summer after
the accident my parents took me to the seashore.
There I met a little girl my own age__ She came
into my world like a great red star, or perhaps more
like a ripe cherry. The only thing I knew for sure
was that she was bright and red__How natural that
people who are red should have red shadows. When
she came to sit down by me between two pools of
salt water under the warmth of the sun I saw rosy
reflections on the canvas of the awning; in the sea
itself the blue of the sea took on a purple tone. I
followed her with a red wake which trailed behind
her wherever she went.6

In the Sufi tradition color is viewed in a special way.

To put it in a nutshell, the oscillating inner states of the
wayfarer on the mystical path are seen as “colors.” In the
idiom of Sufi literature, the process which is activated on
the mystical journey is sometimes referred to by an Arabic
word which means “variegation,” “changing colors”: talwin.
This term derives from the Arabic word for color, lawn (or,
more colloquially, Ion). Variegation denotes the fluctua­
tion of the heart from one state to another. Thus Ion is
sometimes synonymous with hdl, which means a mystical
state.7 The term Ion in this sense has even found its way
into colloquial language; in some modern Arabic dialects,
the question esh lonak, which literally should be rendered
“What is your color?” means, in fact, simply, “What is
your state? How are you?”
In mystical terms, color (Ion), like state (hdl)> indicates
the restless, unstable, fickle, and fluid experiences, exten­
sively explored in this book, which the seeker undergoes—
experiences which, in spite of their mystical and revelatory
nature, are still to a large extent subjective and ego-bound.
The mystical journey is a dynamic process in which the
states and stations of the heart unfold. Each state has its
own mood, its particular form, its own color. The fluctua­
tion of the heart is, as has been indicated above, probably
the major theme in Sufi literature. The lamenting reed
which accompanies the caravan of wayfarers in the desert
of mystical bewilderment repeats this theme endlessly.
“Nothing stays forever,” moans a Persian poet, “every­
thing moves on, oscillates, changes: u mirawad, he (or she?)
is walking away.” (The Persian language, in which so
much of Sufi literature has been written, does not distin­
guish between the genders; hence there is no telling whether
the beloved who is walking away is male or female.)
 Talwin relates not only to the oscillation of psycho­
logical or emotional states encountered on the mystical
journey. Also those experiences which belong to the realm
of the imagination ('Mam al-mithdl wal-khayalf—the
colors and the visions which come up in dreams, in spon­
taneous or voluntary fantasies, in deep states of medita­
tion, or in intuitive flashes—experiences which have been
identified by a long tradition of visionaries as mystical—
all come under the law of change and variegation. This is
a point worth highlighting, since it is frequently over­
looked by adepts and scholars of mysticism: essentially,
according to the Sufi outlook, it is not the mystical expe­
riences which are of the highest importance, but tran­
scending them.
Many mystics, however, have left accounts of experi­
ences in which colors have been seen as the reflection of
their inner states. The late-12th-century mystic Najm ad­
din Kubra, to take one example, one of the greatest vision­
aries in the Sufi tradition, is well-known for his experi­
ences of colored lights. His book Whiffs o f Beauty and
Revelations o f Majesty (Fawa’ih al-jamdl wa-fawatih al-
jaldl) is full of descriptions of visions of colors. These are
not physical colors; they are perceived, he says, by the
organs of inner sight, not by the sensory eyes. Henri
Corbin, whose The Man o f Light in Iranian Sufism is an
analysis of the visionary experiences of Kubra and other
Sufi mystics, explains that these visions are “no illusion
but a real visualization,... the coloration of real objects and
events whose reality ... is not physical but suprasensory,
psycho-spiritual.”9
 Here are some passages which portray Kubra’s teach­
ing of the meaning of visionary colors:

You come to gaze with your own eyes on what

you had until then only known theoretically, through
the intellect....
... When you see before you a great wide space,
an immensity opening onto the far distance, while
above you there is clear pure Air and you perceive
on the far horizon the colors green, red, yellow,
blue, know that you are about to pass, borne aloft
through this air, to the field of these colors. The
colors are those of the spiritual states experienced
inwardly. The color green is the sign of the life of
the heart; the color of ardent pure fire is the sign of
the vitality of spiritual energy, signifying the power
to actualize. If the fire is dim, it denotes in the
mystic a state of fatigue and affliction following the
battle with the lower ego and the Devil. Blue is the
color of this lower ego. Yellow indicates a lessening
of activity. All these are suprasensory realities in
dialogue with the one who experiences them in the
twofold language of inner feeling (dhawq) and vi­
sionary apperception. These are two complementary
witnesses, for you experience inwardly in yourself
what you visualize with your inner sight, and recip­
rocally you visualize with your inner sight precisely
what you experience in yourself.10

The realm of the imagination, the mundus imaginalis

( falam al-mithal), is the realm the seeker tunes into when,
in the practice of “active imagination,” he frees his imagi­
native faculty from sense perception and the thinking
process. It is also the realm of archetypal dream images. It
has many levels, and it can be cultivated so that it becomes
finer and subtler as the inner organs of perception become
finer and subtler. On its finest, subtlest level, we are told by
Kubra, the realm of the imagination touches the realm of
real mystical visions and true prophecies. Through his
intense visual experiences, Kubra discovered, according
to his own testimony, the spiritual reality of, for example,
the color green. He writes:

Green is the color that outlasts the others__

This green may be absolutely pure or it may become
tarnished. Its purity proclaims the dominant note of
the divine light; its dullness results from a return of
the darkness of nature.11

Know that to exist is not limited to a single

act.... On the mystic journey there is a well corre­
sponding to each act of being. The categories of
being are limited to seven__ When you have risen
up through the seven wells in the different catego­
ries of existence, lo and behold, the Heaven of the
sovereign condition (robubiya) and its power are
revealed to you. Its atmosphere is a green light whose
greenness is that of a vital light through which flow
waves eternally in movement towards one another.
This green color is so intense that human spirits are
not strong enough to bear it, though it does not
prevent them from falling into mystical love with it.
And on the surface of this heaven are to be seen
points more intensely red than fire, ruby or corne­
lian, which appear lined up in groups of five. On
seeing them, the mystic experiences nostalgia and a
burning desire; he aspires to unite with them.12

One of the main concerns of Sufi teaching is to map the

fluctuations of the heart from state to state, from “color” to
“color,” to outline its never-ending variegation. Sufi manu­
als from the 10th century on, and a few earlier Sufi writers,
have mapped for future travelers the bumpy terrain through
which the mystical journey passes. They have named the
states and stations the wayfaring heart undergoes when it
embarks on the quest for its kernel. Sufi teaching, as has
been reiterated, is focused on the stations of the heart
(maqdmdt al-qulub), on the inner journey of the heart to
God (sayr al-qalb ild allah) through extreme polar states.
States of elation and ecstasy which Sufis taste on the path
have been named “expansion” (bast); states of anguish and
despair—the dark night of the soul—have been named
“contraction” (qabd). Between these extremes the hearts
are kept in constant fluctuation.
In the two following passages, Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah, a 13th-
century Sufi poet from Egypt, explains why the tossing and
turning of the heart is needed as an experiential tool
leading eventually to a liberation from the swing of the
opposites, thus alluding to the secret of Oneness which
transcends, and includes, polarity:

Sometimes He makes you learn in the night of contraction

What you have not leamt in the radiance of the day of
expansion.
“You do not know which of them is nearer to you in
benefit” (Qur’an 4:11).13

He expanded you so as not to keep you in contraction.

He contracted you so as not to keep you in expansion,
and He took you out of both
so that you not belong to anything apart from Him.14
 The purpose behind the oscillation between the oppo­
sites, between states of elation and depression, expansion
and contraction, is explained also by Bhai Sahib on a day
when his disciple, Mrs. Tweedie, is experiencing happi­
ness, when her “heart is full of such peace.” He says:

According to the System, the Shishya (in Hindi:

disciple) is constantly kept between the opposites,
ups and downs; it creates the friction necessary to
cause suffering which will defeat the Mind.15

Thus, whether the records are old or new, whether they

use traditional terminology, poetic language, or the direct
form of a diary, they tell a similar story. They give reports
of a system which is hardly interested in concepts and
theories, but in the accumulation of inner experiences
which will, if persevered in, transfer the seeker from the
world of polarity and duality to the world of oneness.
But the mapping of the heart’s journey is only a means
to an end. What is this end? To point towards what is
beyond all states and colors, towards a state which is a non­
state, towards a color which is a no-color. Here is a
thought-provoking statement made by Ibn al-‘Arabi, the
13th-century Andalusian mystic:

The people of perfection have realized all sta­

tions and states and passed beyond these to the sta­
tion above both majesty and beauty, so they have no
attribute and no description.16

What does it mean to pass “above both majesty and

beauty”? What can it mean “to have no attribute and no
description"? What is the Sufi after? What is the highest or
deepest attainment of the Sufi who seeks after Truth? It is
not esoteric knowledge, nor peace of mind, nor special
powers, nor is it stoic, detached states of contemplation.
Rather, it is the state of total annihilation, a state described
as an absorption in nothingness, in colorlessness; to be
annihilated in that nothingness which has no shape, which
has no color, which is beyond color or state, which is
absorption in the Totality of Being. This is the state known
as fana ', cessation, passing away, the end of all states, a
non-state. A passage from one of the oldest Sufi compila­
tions tries to describe this state:

The mystic passes away from what belongs to

himself, and persists through what belongs to God__
When “centred” he is also “dispersed.” ... He is “absent”
and “intoxicated” because his power of discrimina­
tion has passed away, and in this sense all things
become one to him.17

But if this is the ultimate desired state, what are we to

do with our love for nature, our love for color, for art and
music, for craft and poetry? What are we to do with our
love for beauty? This is a most perplexing question. And
there are not only the sensory colors and experiences that
the ultimate mystical experience demands transcending;
there are also the imagined colors and experiences of
dreams, of active imagination, of insights, intuitions, and
revelations which have been identified by a long tradition
of visionaries as mystical experiences. What will become
of these when a state of nothingness takes over?
Sufi literature addresses these questions without qualms
or perplexity. For example, in The Conference o f the Birds,
a unique Sufi epic, the poet, Farid ad-Din ‘Attar, speaks
explicitly and relentlessly about that supreme desire of the
individual soul to become absorbed within the Ocean of
Totality, within the colorlessness of nothingness:

The seventh [valley is] Poverty and Nothingness—

And there you are suspended, motionless,
Till you are drawn—the impulse is not yours—
A drop absorbed in seas that have no shores.18

First lose yourself, then lose this loss and then

Withdraw from all that you have lost again—
Go peacefully, and stage by stage progress
Until you gain the realms of Nothingness.19

Made one with his beloved he became

The Nothingness of an extinguished flame.
True pilgrims fathom, even as they fight,
The passion of annihilation’s night.20

All that I ever lost or ever found

Is in the depths of that black deluge drowned.
I too am lost; I leave no trace, no mark;
I am a shadow cast upon the dark,
A drop sunk in the sea, and it is vain
To search the sea for that one drop again.
This Nothingness is not for everyone,
Yet many seek it out as I have done;
And who would reach this far and not aspire
To Nothingness, the pilgrim’s last desire?21

Then, as they listened to the Simorgh’s words,

A trembling dissolution filled the birds—
The substance of their being was undone,
And they were lost like shade before the sun;
 Neither the pilgrims nor their guide remained.
The Simorgh ceased to speak, and silence reigned.22

An immense tension lies at the core of the mystical

journey: the tension between shifting experiences and
immutable silence, between mystical states and the ulti­
mate non-state. I have quoted at length from The Confer­
ence o f the Birds because I know of no other piece of
literature which brings the two poles of the mystical quest
into such stark juxtaposition; at the one pole the ever-
changing, bewildering experiences the seeker must traverse
in the process of variegation (talwin); and at the other pole,
the still, black point of absorption in nothingness, beyond
experiencing and beyond variegation. ‘“ There is nothing
but Nothingness,’ he said yesterday,” Mrs. Tweedie quotes
her teacher Bhai Sahib in Daughter o f Fire:

“There is nothing but Nothingness.” ... And the

way he said it, repeating it with emphasis, and the
echo it awakened in my heart, made me think that it
was meant for me. It struck me as the most wonder­
ful sentence and it made me glad.... Speaking of
this astonishing state of nothingness, I said that at
the beginning it was just Nothing; later there was
like a sorrowful happiness with much longing in
it, but now it was just wonderful. Why it was so
wonderful I could not say; this feeling is too new
and difficult to analyze__When at home I realized
that the answer is contained in his statement of
yesterday: there is nothing but Nothingness, and
it represents a perfect state—that’s why it is so
wonderful.23

A few months earlier, on April 1Oth, 1966, Mrs. Tweedie

wrote in her diary:
 Our relationship to God is something entirely
different from what we usually imagine it to be. We
think that the relationship of God and man is of
duality. There is God and there is the man who will
pray to God... or who will worship, or love, or praise
God. There are always two. But it is not so. I have
found that our relationship to God is something quite
different. It is a merging, without words, without
thoughts even ... into something. Something so tre­
mendous, so endless, merging in infinite Love-...
And the physical body is under suffering; it is taut
like a string in this process of annihilation....
“What you have said," he nodded gravely, “is
absolutely correct.”24

The disciple may not always realize it immediately,

but when a real connection is established between him and
the teacher, and when he willingly becomes exposed to the
energy of the teacher, then a process starts in which the
disciple not only oscillates between conflicting, polar
states horizontally, but much more intensely he is thrown
between two different dimensions of existence vertically,
two different levels of consciousness. The disciple may not
be aware of the subtle and rapid transition between these
different dimensions, and this unawareness may last for a
long time. He may not understand why he suffers so much,
why the journey involves so many difficulties, so many
sacrifices and misunderstandings, and why every familiar
value is falling away. The disciple may protest and chal­
lenge the teacher, even challenge God. Moses himself, as
we saw, could not understand why Khidr committed cer­
tain unbearable iniquities, acts that seemed to Moses ma­
levolent and totally unjust.25But gradually, imperceptibly,
through being exposed to the energy of the teacher (as we
have been exposed to ‘Attar’s verses), the disciple’s con­
sciousness may occasionally become attuned to both realms
of being simultaneously. When this happens, everything
on the ordinary level of existence is transformed and
becomes revitalized.
This traveling, sometimes at the speed of light, be­
tween the two planes of existence causes bewilderment,
intense resistance for the mind, pains of crucifixion for the
body. Often the disciple prefers to shut his eyes and deny
the agonizing movement between here and not-here. It is
so confusing, so hard to accept, to understand, to explain.
It is easier to indulge in the “yo-yo syndrome” (a contem­
porary term for talwin), But eventually, if he sincerely and
trustingly perseveres, he will awake to the pull of another
dimension, a different state of consciousness, another
level of being. And then he will be thrown back—with a
thump— onto the earth again, because he must not neglect
his earthly business.
This is the main reason for the states of confusion and
resistance which are so much a part of the mystical jour­
ney. The verses of The Conference o f the Birds are meant
to hammer into the reader’s heart and mind, through the
experiences and tales of the birds, that other, that truly
mystical dimension in which the key phrase is There is
nothing but Nothingness. In this dimension all colors
disappear. All mystical experiences cease, everything
ceases. This is very difficult to accept. It is perhaps the
greatest demand that the mystical path claims of the way­
farer, the greatest paradox which cannot be reconciled,
because this non-state, the ultimate state of merging in
Nothingness, is meant to take place in the midst of life,
within all the colors, shapes, and moods which life presents.
It is in the midst of life that the seeker encounters that
place in himself where the two planes of existence meet,
the two planes to which he becomes hopelessly exposed
once he crosses the threshold of the teacher’s door. This
meeting point, as we saw, is traditionally described as “the
meeting of the two seas,” (majma‘ al-bahrayn). Here, at
this inner meeting point, the sincere seeker will find Khidr,
the eternal Guide. Khidr lives in the midst of the sea of
death. In order to reach the water of eternal life guarded by
Khidr, the seeker must traverse this sea. He has to experi­
ence successive deaths, and only when he dies to all that he
has owned, including his mystical experiences, only when
he inwardly renounces ownership of anything at all, only
then is he revived and reborn into a timeless existence
enfolded by the Ocean of Being.
Death and the state of utter inner poverty have been
symbolized by the color black. The 15th-century Sufi
Sheikh Shams ad-din al-Lahiji, who was in the habit of
wearing black only, recorded the following overwhelming
experience of the black light of annihilation which ab­
sorbed all lights and colors:

I saw myself present in a world of light. Moun­

tains and deserts were iridescent with lights of all
colors: red, yellow, white, blue. I was experiencing
a consuming nostalgia for them; 1 was as though
stricken with madness and snatched out of myself
by the violence of the intimate emotion and feeling
of the presence. Suddenly I saw that the black light
was invading the entire universe. Heaven and earth
and everything that was there had wholly become
black light and, behold, I was totally absorbed in
 this light, losing consciousness. Then I came back
to myself.26

Black light, a contradiction in terms. This is one of the

deepest, if not the deepest of mystical experiences. At the
core of our separate existences as individual human be­
ings, as well as at the core of Existence as such, there is a
void, a black point of nothingness. This is the edge of
knowing, this is the edge of consciousness, the edge of
experiencing. And yet, in some mysterious way, it is
experienced. It does become known, and it has been re­
ported and documented by many mystics of different
affiliations. But at the moment of experiencing it, its
totality takes over, and in the face of the black light
everything perishes; the black light alone exists.

We have come full circle back to the image at the

beginning of this chapter: the color of water. Abu Nasr as-
Sarraj, the 10th-century Sufi compiler who quotes Abu
Yazid al-Bistaml’s description of the mystic, The color o f
water is the color o f his receptacle, offers the following
commentary to this image:

Abu Yazfd’s statement means, and God knows

best,27 that the water, to the extent of its purity,
reflects the color of the receptacle, yet the color of
the receptacle does not alter its state of purity. The
observer imagines that the water is white or black,
but the water In the receptacle is in one constant
reality. Thus also are the mystic’s features in rela­
tion to God. Notwithstanding the changing states
 which overtake him and shift him from one to an-
other, his innermost heart, his sirr, is with God in
one constant reality.2'

The color o f water. A simple image which captures the

very essence of Sufi mysticism, and the nature of the
paradox within which the seeker must live. Water symbolizes
both the fluidity and the potential purity at the core of the
mystical life. There is no rigidity, no self-opinionatedness,
just the compassionate fluidity of empathy, tenderness,
and melting substances.
When water is pure it reflects the color of the container
in which it is held. We live within many “containers”: the
physical body with its organs and sense perception, the
social fabric and relationships, our likes and dislikes, our
profession, our opinions, our beliefs and principles, our
fears and ambitions, even our spiritual life, our dreams, our
aspirations, our deepest experiences. All these are differ­
ent parts and aspects of the individuality within which we
are contained. These aspects lend us color, distinction, and
characteristics. We are distinguished from one another; we
behave differently in different situations, with different
people: we do not behave the same way when we are at
work as when we are with friends in a social gathering,
when we are ill as when we are healthy, when we are angry
as when we are content, when we fall in love as when we
fall out of love, when we meditate as when we watch a
movie. Circumstances change constantly, yet at heart the
mystic remains the same. Something deep within remains
constant, silent, and without variegation. In his or her
innermost, he, or she, has become free from identifying
with any state or stage, with any object or person, with any
project or aspiration, be it blameworthy or praiseworthy.
When viewed from the heart of hearts, from “the secret of
secrets,” from the state of 'ayn al-jam', all is connected to
the Source of Total Being.
To the extent that the water is pure, it has no color of
its own. It has no character, no features. It reflects what­
ever passes on its way, whatever throws its reflection upon
it. Ultimately, within its very depths, the water reflects the
black light of the Absolute Darkness.
This is why the masters have prayed to become color­
less and featureless. And it is in this vein that the master of
the Naqshbandi fraternity, Baha’ ad-Din Naqshband, said:
“For the last twenty -two years / have been following in the
footsteps ofaTHakim at-Tirmidhi. As he was featureless so
/ am now featureless. He who knows it, knows. ”29
 Sufi Ethics and Etiquette:
The Path cu a Way o f Life

The Sufis are the sweepers of the dunghills of men.

A Sufi saying

There are many [Naqshbandis} still living in the city.

But their dress shows nothing. They are like invisible ones!
What matters is in the heart! It is only the heart that matters!
A contemporary Sufi from Bukhara1

mystical path is usually lived in the context of a

group. A Sufi group which gathered around a master used
to be known as^halqa^ta ring, a sphere, a circle. The
members of a halqa were closely affiliated to each other as
companion-wayfarers on the path to God. In time the early
circles joined together to form a tariqa: a path, a fraternity.
Life within Sufi groups required of the members full atten­
tion not only to their own needs but also to the needs of their
fellow men and wom^nj Each moment, each place, and
each person created situations which required a particular
act or attitude. Hence we find in numerous Sufi compila­
tions whole sections devoted to ethics and etiquette. Some
Sufi authors have even compiled special treatises devoted
to the subject which is the Arabic term for eti­
quette. Lists of etiquette include prescriptions for the right
conduct in different circumstances: what one should do and
what one should not do, how one should act and when one
should abstain from acting. These lists of dddb, which were
transmitted, either orally or in a written form, were laid
down, taught, and watched over by the masters in order to
maintain within the groups a solid social interaction
based on service, and in order to cultivate a surrendering
character. Abu ‘Abd ar-Rahman as-Sulami, a 10th- to 11th-
---------j . - K .' p u t * • * - * « " J i l l * * J<

century master who had a Sufi “school” (mad rasa) in

Nishapur, sums up this approach simply: “Bring joy into
the lives of your friends and meet their needs.... Do not find
fault with your friends.'^^yQ djpElsts have thus set out the
norms of behavior within Sufi groups and have defined the
commended way o f Jiving according to the Sufi tradition.3
* I" * * ■ "T “ ' “ ~ 1- ^ " -■ ' .1 -. ’ ^ r - ri_ _ i.- r * .* K .J -V ^ . |_ V —

What is the foundation upon which these didactic and

practical aspects of the path are built? An old saying,
attributed sometimes to ‘All ibn Abi Talib, the fourth
Muslim Caliph, states that Sufism is nothing but the pos- ”^*1 V-PaiiH.'rt*v
It*,. ,1.Y 1— - Ha .. iWp^jjTi ■
■ ■■***

session of good nature: “Sufism is good nature; he who has

the better nature is the better Sufi.”4 That this should be a
definition of a mystical system may come as a surprise.
There is no mention of ecstasy, revelation, miracles; sim­
ply “good nature.” Al-Hujwiri, the 1lth-century Sufi from
Afghanistan, records this saying in his Kashf al-Mahjub
(The Unveiling o f the Veiled), one of the earliest manuals
of Sufi lore. Like most Sufi compilers, al-Hujwiri adds his
own interpretation to the material which he records. This is
how he comments on the saying, “Sufism is good nature;
he who has the better nature is the better Sufi”:

Good nature is of two kinds: towards God and

towards men. The former is compliance with the
Divine Decrees, the latter is endurance of the bur­
den of men’s society for God’s sake.3
 Al-Hujwlri’s statement captures an essential aspect of
Sufism. It implies that good nature, or “goodness of dispo­
sition” (to use the translator R. A. Nicholson’s somewhat
archaic idiom),6 is the infrastructure of a sound mystical
life. Good nature is a necessary asset not only in the arena
of social relationships, hut also in relation to God.
This fundamental facet of Sufism is encapsulated in an
idiom, current in Sufi literature, which may be roughly
translated as “to be of a good mind,” “to have a good
opinion,” or simply “to think positively” (husn az-zann).
Sufi teachers constantly remind their disciples that they
should apply “positive attitude” not only in their personal
circumstances and social relationships, but also in relation
to God. This may sound superfluous: can there be any other
way of relating to God? What is this injunction about?
All too often even sincere seekers are prone to feel
embittered over the hardships they encounter in life and on
the path. They resent their recurring problems, their fail­
ures, the wrongs that have been done to them, the fact that
the teacher rejects them, the injustice in the world, and so
on. Bitterness, envy, a grudge—these emotions constellate
a negative attitude, su'az-zann, which means “to think
negatively” about that which God has decreed. When this
attitude is predominant, the seeker becomes identified
with his troubles and pains, and loses sight of the road
ahead. This, according to Sufi etiquette, is a self-centered
indulgence which is destructive to spiritual progress. The
seeker, therefore, is called upon “to comply with God’s
decree” as well as “to endure men’s company for the sake
of God.” The inner and outer struggles in the station
(maqdm) of endurance (sabr) build up trust in God
(tawakkul), and progressively lead to the state of resigna­
tion and content (rida). Ibn ‘A ta \ a close companion of al-
Hallaj, describes the station of content as follows: “[It is
when] the heart observes God’s primordial choice for
man,7 so that he comes to know that that which God has
chosen for him is best, and so he resigns contented and lets
go of anger.”®
A group, relationships, family life, a failure, a loss,
illness, and other difficulties which life presents—all pro­
vide opportunities for practicing the attitude of husn at-
tann. The hardships and “tests” which confront the seeker
can be very conducive to spiritual life, if he puts this
attitude into practice. Bhai Sahib, the 20th-century Sufi
master from Kanpur, used to say: “The greater the limita­
tion, the greater the perfection.”
According to Sufi tradition, two polar attitudes lead to
the state of rida, contented resignation: the one is gratitude
(shukr), the other perseverance (sabr). Sufis are taught to
apply one or the other in joyful and painful situations
respectively. When things run smoothly, the attitude of
gratitude takes the seeker away from the delusional nafs,
which tends to ascribe all good things to itself, and directs
his attention towards the real source of bounty. In painful
circumstances the attitude of perseverance creates an inner
space clear of resentment in which the seeker waits for the
tidal waves to subside.|Here is how Rum! paraphrases this
teaching poetically:

Why talk of night? For the lover displays a

thousand signs, the least of which are tears, yellow
cheeks, a frail body and failing health.
 In weeping he is like the clouds, in persever­
ance like the mountains, in prostration like water, in
lowliness like dirt in the road.

But all these afflictions surround his garden like

thorns—within it are roses, the Beloved, and a flow­
ing fountain.

When you pass by the garden's wall and enter

into its greenery, you will give thanks and prostrate
yourself in gratitude:

“Thanksgiving and praise belong to God! For

He has taken away autumn’s cruelty. The earth has
blossomed, spring has shown its face!”9

Another Sufi tradition, which runs in a similar vein,

has been attributed to the prophet Muhammad. He says:
“God has shaped the character of the wall on nothing but
generosity” (md jabala allah waliyyan ilia ‘aid as-sakha').
Generosity rests on the foundation of good nature that a
Sufi should possess and cultivate before anything else. It
implies giving spaciously, being of service, having consid­
eration for the needs of another, visiting the sick, being
hospitable, being wide and open without too many calcu­
lations, inhibitions, or conditions. “Care for your brethren
more than you care for your own family,” writes as-
Sulami; “Be satisfied with little for yourself and wish much
for others.”10 And al-Qushayri, citing a current dictum,
describes Sufism as “an open hand and a good heart.”11
Other images of generosity are a bountiful tree, a wide
flowing river, the abundance of the earth, the grace of rain.
 One recalls how Bhai Sahib lived, how many people
lived with him, lived off him. Mrs. Tweedie, who observed
his way of life during her stay with him in Kanpur, often
expressed indignation. To her Western eyes some of these
people were simply parasites. But Bhai Sahib insisted that
this is how a Sufi should live.
In the rules of conduct of certain early Sufi groups, one
of the most prominent measures taught by the masters was
ithdr, roughly (and inadequately) translatable as "altru­
ism.” Ithdr means to place the other in front, to give
precedence to the other. It is the ultimate sign of Sufi
chivalry (futuwwa). It is put into practice in gatherings (for
example, in a gathering for prayer or for meditation) when
disciples are content to sit in the back rows rather than in
the front rows, or when they shy away from reserving a
seat. During a meal the disciple does not attempt to get the
best or freshest pieces. The Prophet Muhammad, it is told,
when he ate with his companions was always the last to
start eating.12And Abu Sa*id ibn Abi ai-Khayr, in what is
perhaps the first collection of rules of conduct prescribed
to a Sufi group, writes: “Let them not eat anything save in
participation with one another."13
Ithdr means also to refrain from passing judgment on
one’s fellow men. Moreover, it means to justify the actions
of the other, even though they may appear wrong. When
Dhu an-Nun was asked, “With whom shall I associate?”
his answer was, “With him who ... does not disapprove of
any state you happen to be in."14The followers of “the Path
of Blame,” the Malamatis of Nishapur, laid down the rule:
“Respect others, regard others with favor, justify the wrong­
doings of others and rebuke your own self.”15And Abu ‘All
ad-Daqqaq, al-Qushayri’s revered master, said, perhaps
provocatively: “[Sufism] is a path which is only right for
people with whose spirits God sweeps the dunghills.*’16
The conduct of the masters is a model for the disciples
to live by, but the disciple is required to develop also a
sense of discretion. How far to extend giving or to with­
draw from giving are issues which have to be faced daily
within an interactive group. Awareness and discretion are
called for so that giving should not be practiced for the
wrong reasons—for example, in order to please, or in order
to appease. And conversely, when giving is withheld, the
disciple should avoid trying to self-righteously justify
himself. Service, help, giving generously become natural,
like the flow of water, when one is there, present, attuned
to real needs, without asking too many questions or putting
too many conditions.
Behind “giving” and “generosity” there lies an essen­
tial principle: One is never given anything fo r oneself
alone. I have always found this a profound, far-reaching
principle. When one realizes that he has been given some­
thing for which he has had a true need, he experiences
gratitude and is released from being wrapped up in a self-
centered state of need. When he experiences, at times to his
surprise, that there is a “giver” out there and that his need
has been met, then he can relax from fears, anxieties, and
mistrust. His entire environment, inner as well as outer,
changes. Gratitude breeds generosity. It is a modest, in­
conspicuous way of bringing about change. Sufis refer
sometimes to the process of generously giving and grate­
fully receiving as “polishing the mirror of the heart.” “Do
not wear the garb of the Sufi,” warns as-Sulaml, “before
you have qualified for it by cleansing your heart.”17
Another ancient saying comes to mind: “When you see
someone whose heart is soft and warm, know that he is a
Sufi.” The name “Sufi” derives from the Arabic word for
wool: suf. The qualities required of a Sufi are, therefore,
softness and warmth. This saying reflects an old tradition
shared by the peoples of the Mediterranean since Antiq­
uity. It can be found, for example, in pre-Islamic Jewish
traditions, which describe the people of the South as
possessing, collectively, soft and warm hearts. Early Mus­
lim traditions too describe the people of Yemen (and
Yemen means South) in the same way: their hearts are said
to be soft and warm. Later on, it seems, Sufis adopted this
tradition and linked it with the image of wool. Images of
softness, warmth, abundance, non-rigidity have from time
immemorial exemplified “Sufis” of whichever denomina­
tion. Thus, before any virtues or etiquette can be put into
practice, the adept is called upon to acquire the warmth and
softness of heart which breed generous giving, service to
others, gratitude, and contentment.
But is the call “to acquire” not contradictory to the
notion of “disposition,” which implies an innate feature?
Indeed, but when a sincere seeker enters the orbit of a
teacher, he gradually assimilates with the teacher, and in
the course of time “acquires” the teacher’s qualities: one
mirrors back the teacher’s qualities. Sufi ethics go even
further: they teach that to follow the path ultimately im­
plies “to assimilate the qualities of God”—al-takhalluq bi-
akhiaq alldh. As God is generous and bountiful, so should
God’s lovers be.18 When the process of transformation
takes place in the blessed environment of a teacher, a door
opens; changes are at hand. The inner and outer transfor­
mation which disciples go through is said to be the true
miracle accomplished by the friends of God. Bhai Sahib
used to describe his own house thus: “This is a house of
drunkards, this is a house of change.”
There is a universal dimension to the ancient Sufi
teaching which requires nothing more than “the goodness
of disposition,” a soft, warm heart, and the assimilation of
the teacher’s qualities. Such teaching seems free of the
rigidity and self-righteousness that moralistic systems tend
to acquire. It is not bound by any theological teachings.
Fundamentally, it transcends denomination, ethnicity, and
religious identity. True, Sufism has been formulated and
lived out by a long line of Muslim teachers and disciples.
The love and respect for the Prophet Muhammad and for
the Islamic religious law have been part and parcel of this
tradition for the last twelve hundred years. The Naqshbandi
path in particular has been known for its strict adherence to
the Sunni sharl'ad9 But this may have changed according
to the needs of the time. Bhai Sahib, the 20th-century
Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi from Kanpur, was given the “li­
cense” (ijaza) to teach by Guru Maharaj, his Muslim
teacher, who had never demanded that he relinquish the
Hindu tradition. And Mrs. Tweedie was sent by Bhai Sahib
to the West as his successor, regardless of her Russian-
Orthodox origins.
The universal dimension is highlighted by Bhai Sahib’s
saying, recorded by Mrs. Tweedie in one of the earliest
entries of her diary,
 “Sufism is a way of life. It is neither a religion
nor a philosophy. There are Hindu Sufis, Muslim
Sufis, Christian Sufis—My Revered Guru Maharaj
was a Muslim.” He said it very softly with a tender
expression, his eyes dreamy and veiled.20

A few days later, on October 12, Bhai Sahib elaborated:

A System is a School of Yoga, or a Path of Self-

Realization—the meaning is the same. We are called
Saints, but it is the same as Yogis—in Wisdom
there is no difference. The color of our Line is golden
yellow, and we are called The Golden Sufis or the
Silent Sufis, because we practice silent meditation.
We do not use music or dancing or any definite
practice. We do not belong to any country or any
civilization, but we work always according to the
need of the people of the time. We belong to Raja
Yoga, but not in the sense as it is practiced by the
Vedantins. Raja means simply: Kingly, or Royal,
the Direct Road to Absolute Truth.21

Goodness of disposition, generosity, adherence to the

ways of the teacher, a universal system which is based on
gratitude, perseverance, service, and inner silence—this is
the framework of Sufi ethics and etiquette.

“Sufism is violence ( ‘anwa), there is no peace in it” is

a startling saying, especially when attributed to al-Junayd,
this celebrated master of the Baghdadi circle, who left a
lasting impression on the Sufi tradition.22 Indeed, the
encounter with a Sufi teacher creates for the disciple a
restless, forceful situation in which he is mercilessly taken
into the sway of the opposites: often he will find himself in
a whirlpool of inner conflicts, on a merry-go-round, with
his nose in the mud. In spite of the inner and outer
disturbances which the teacher and the path will create for
him, the disciple is also required to live a grounded,
responsible outer life. This is because the mystical quest is
lived, and must be lived, in the midst of life. Extreme inner
upheavals may rise within the disciple when he earnestly
tries to bring the two worlds together. He loses his grip on
previous notions of right and wrong, while at the same time
he is trying to maintain a footing in the world of outer
concerns and appearances.
Sufi teachers have taught that on the path one has to
give up the notion that what one sees is in fact the way it is.
A passage from Rum i’s D iscoursei, which were written
in prose with a clear didactic purpose, poignantly makes
this point:

If everything were in truth as it appears to be,

the Prophet, endowed as he was with a vision so
penetrating, so illumined and illuminating, would
never have cried, ‘Lord, show me things as they
are.’ ‘Thou showest a thing as fair, and in reality it
is ugly; Thou showest a thing as ugly, and in reality
it is lovely. Therefore do Thou show us every thing
just as it is, that we may not fall into the snare and
that we may not go astray perpetually.’ Now your
judgement, however good and luminous it may be,
is certainly not better than the Prophet’s judgement.
He used to speak in this fashion; so do you now not
put your trust in every idea and every notion. Be
ever humble and fearful before God.23
 From the same relativistic approach, Abu Najib as-
Suhrawardl, a celebrated 12th-century Sufi master from
Persia and the author of one of the earliest Sufi works on
etiquette, writes in his Sufi Rule fo r Novices :

The answers to questions about Sufism vary ac-

cording to the spiritual station of the enquirer: the
novice (murid) is answered with regard to the exter­
nal aspect of Sufism, that is, concerning mutual
relations (ethics). The Sufi of the middle rank
(mutawassit) is answered with regard to the inner
states (ahwdl), and the knower (al- ‘arif) is answered
with regard to the reality (al-haqiqa). The begin­
ning of Sufism is learning (*ilm), the middle is praxis
Carnal) and the end is grace.24

The teacher will create confusing and frustrating situ­

ations for the minds of the disciples when similar questions
are answered in diametrically opposed ways. Many a time
did Mrs. Tweedie accuse Bhai Sahib of contradicting
himself. He always expressed surprise at these accusa­
tions, as she recorded in Daughter o f Fire:

No contradictions here, only your mind makes it

so. In the morning one says something which be­
longs to the morning; at midday one says things
which belong to this time; in the afternoon and in
the evening one will say what is suitable to that
particular time. There is no contradiction. We speak
according to the time, the place, and the state of the
progress of the disciple.25

One can clearly see how confusing and disconcerting

life can be around a Sufi teacher, where ethics and the
proper manners are infused into the murid rather than
directly taught. Not only is there no certainty or assurance
in the outer situations which life presents, but one never
knows with certainty what the teacher requires of him, or
how the teacher looks upon him. Confusion is deliberately
built into the system of Sufi education, until one learns,
through being beaten up by repeated experiences, to adopt
a new perspective, a new outlook on things. One learns not
to trust anything but the subtle indications, or hints, which
arise spontaneously in the heart. Then the outer situations,
including the provocative and confusing behavior of the
teacher, do not matter in the same way as before. One can
lead then the most ordinary life or become a prominent
leader; the ethics do not get contaminated by ego-driven
desires. To put it in the words of as-Suhrawardi:

The Sufi of the middle rank (mutawassit) is in

the process of ascending from one state to the next,
but the consummate Sufi (muntahin) is in a position
of stability, and he is immune to the effects of the
changeful states of mind or harsh circumstances....
This is also attested to by the example of the Prophet,
who at first had practiced solitude but afterwards
mingled with people. Likewise, the “people of the
portico,”25when they had reached the state of stabil­
ity, became commanders and administrators, and
mixing with the people did not damage their spiri­
tual position.27

“Time," says al-Qushayri, “is where you are in the

moment," namely, where you are now.28 Therefore, one of
the first rules that the seeker has to endorse is how to live
in the moment and according to the requirements of the
moment. This principle has been articulated in different
ways. Most inspiring is the way in which it was formulated
by the Khwdjagan, the Masters of Wisdom, the spiritual
ancestors of the Naqshbandi path.
Initially, in the 12th century, eight rules were laid
down by the masters. Later on, in the 14th century, Baha’
ad-Din Naqshband added three more. All these rules em­
phasize various aspects of “living in the moment.” The
masters have articulated them in short, pithy, and some­
what enigmatic formulae.
“Watch your step” (in Persian: na^ar bar qadam) is
one of these formulae. How is it to be understood? There
are many ways of interpretation. It may mean, simply, that
one should have one's feet on the ground. This basic,
down-to-earth rule often has to be restated within groups of
spiritual aspirants. It may be desirable to aspire to the
highest, but one must not forget where one is, or where one
is going. Looking after one’s daily affairs, fulfilling one’s
responsibilities in the right attitude, is as spiritually de­
manding as going off into deep mystical states. Quoting
Bhai Sahib, Mrs. Tweedie has often reiterated: “We are
not idle drones, nor lotus-eaters; we have our feet firm on
the ground, while our heads carry the vault of the skies.”
“Watch your step” can be understood also as “ponder
your step,” ponder the meaning and purpose of the steps
you take in the transitory phases of life. In The Alchemy o f
Happiness al-Ghazzali, a famous 11th-century teacher,
addresses the need to remember constantly the purpose of
life and of the spiritual journey. He writes:
 Real self-knowledge consists in knowing the
following things: What art thou in thyself, and from
whence hast thou come? Whither art thou going,
and for what purpose hast thou come to tarry here
awhile, and in what does thy real happiness and
misery consist?29

Pondering these existential questions may lead to yet

deeper realizations. The wayfarer on the path must learn to
be at alt times watchful, as a cat at a mousehole, not to
become sidetracked by the landscape of the terrain in
which the journey takes place. Sidetracking may arise
from outer as well as from inner phenomena: one can
become sidetracked by paying too much attention to expe­
riences, dreams, psychological problems, the longing, the
next stage on the path, as much as one can be distracted by
paying too much attention to casual, mundane attractions
which come and go. It is useful to observe that the aspira­
tion for spiritual life can sometimes become an opaque
veil. Therefore, in every step the seeker is advised: Be
aware! Don’t be complacent! Watch your steps!
One can then proceed and ponder: where do I stand in
relation to the tradition to which I belong? Am I able to live
up to the model of my spiritual ancestors? Can I live by
their standards? Am I aware that I belong to a “tradition”?
Do I accept its guidelines, its authority? Do I resent it? Are
there any conflicts in me about it?
These as well as other levels of interpretation of this
rule relate to the different orbits in which seekers live their
lives. Clearly, each generation, each era, each group, each
individual—all inject their own meanings into the formula.
It is tersely phrased, so that it can become a seed-thought, a
focus for inner contemplation which may lead to a deeper
self-awareness and greater honesty and authenticity.
In Kashf al-Mahjub, al-Hujwiri quotes a saying of a
somewhat obscure 10th-century Sufi from Nishapur, Abu
Muhammad M urta‘ish, who says: “The Sufi is he whose
aspiration keeps pace with his foot.” This saying ad­
equately sums up what has been conveyed so far. Append­
ing his own commentary, al-Hujwiri writes:

That is to say, he is entirely present: his soul is

where his body is, and his body where his soul is,
and his sou! where his foot is, and his foot where his
soul is. This is the sign of presence without absence.30

Another rule formulated by the masters is “awareness

in breathing,” or “conscious breathing” (in Persian: hush
dar dam). What does it mean to “breathe consciously”?
Sufis have always maintained that each moment which
passes in which God has not been remembered is a wasted
moment. The breath connects us with the Divine. In the
constant flow of inhalation and exhalation, and especially
in the almost imperceptible pause between the two, a
vibrating model of the two worlds in which we live pre­
sents itself to us: we withdraw, and then we re-emerge; we
introvert into our inner recesses in order to extravert again
and share life in its external fullness. Life, the complete
life, consists of the polar states of “in” and “out.” What lies
in between belongs to the realm of silence and nothing­
ness, the true esoteric aspect of the path to God.
J. G. Bennett, in his The Masters o f Wisdom, sums up
the commentaries to this formula which he found in
Naqshbandi sources:
 Breathing is the nourishment of the inner man.
As we breathe, we should place our attention on
each successive breath and be aware of our own
presence. For this, it is necessary to be in the right
state because if the breath is taken inattentively, it
will not go to the right place. Mawlana Saad ad-din
Kashghari explained that hosh dar dam requires that
from one breath to another we should keep our at­
tention open to our goal. Inattention is what sepa­
rates us from God__
Khwaja Baha ad-din Naqshbandi said: “In this
path, the foundation is built upon breathing. The
more that one is able to be conscious of one’s breath­
ing, the stronger is one’s inner life.” He added that it
is particularly important to keep awareness of the
change from in-breathing to the out-breathing....
Mawlana Jami, the great poet of central Asia,
said that hosh dar dam is the absolute moment when
personal identity is merged into the One. This, he
said, is the ultimate secret of breath.31

This description may raise many questions. What kind

of “awareness” is required here? Is it a mental awareness,
in which one is still confined within the mind, and there­
fore is most unlikely to be in a state of “merging” with the
One? Or is there another state of awareness which the
above passage alludes to, and to which this practice may
lead? What does "absolute moment” mean?
These are not theoretical, academic questions. Seekers
have struggled with them for centuries in their quest for
“the final goal of liberation.” More than fifteen hundred
years ago the same question was raised by the bewildered,
yet inspired, St. Augustine, who wrote in his Confessions:

As I rise above memory, where am I to find

you? ... If I find you outside my memory, I am not
 mindful of you. And how shall 1 find you if 1 am not
mindful of you?32

In recalling you I rose above those parts of

memory which animals also share ... I came to the
parts of my memory where I stored the emotions of
my mind, and 1 did not find you there. I entered into
the very seat of my mind ... since the mind also
remembers itself. But you were not there.33

Struggling and stumbling, seekers learn that there are

indeed many levels of consciousness. But this struggle
cannot be confined to the mental level alone, since on that
level it’s bound to tumble into a dizzying, bottomless pit of
confusion. On the other hand, when consciousness is
approached from the level of the breath, it may result in a
sense of liberation from mental disorientation. But whether
or not "the secret of breath” really points to “the annihila­
tion of self and union with the absolute being which is the
final goal of liberation," this the seeker will not find out
unless he plunges practically into the mysteries of husk
dar dam.34

The moral foundation upon which Sufi ethics are built

is not the dichotomy between good and evil, right and
wrong. Rather is it based on the dichotomy between the
world of illusion and imaginary needs, in which the ego
reigns in collaboration with the three-dimensional sensory
perception, and the world of Reality (haqiqa). The world
of Reality belongs to a dimension free from the limitation
of sense perception, psychological needs, and wishful
fantasies. Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee has put this idea in an
interesting context, saying that relationships within a spiri­
tual group are essentially vertical, not horizontal. The
image of a vertical rather than a horizontal axis of friend­
ship and companionship reflects the mystical orientation
towards the Sacred. Deep in the collective psyche of the
Sufi tradition lies this one-pointed orientation which at all
times aligns the heart of the seeker with the Divine, with
the Beloved. This alignment dictates the outlook with
which a Sufi seeker views his entire life, which includes
his moral and ethical life. This is how Abu ‘Abd ar-
Rahman as-Sulami of Nishapur expresses the attitude
which arises from such an orientation:

God has spoken to this community with hints,

and they have responded with mystic expressions.
Who can know the inner stations of these people?
Only the Friends of God, the pure of heart and those
who know God. They are the lovers of God— Their
hearts are of the [heavenly! Throne while their bod­
ies are of wild instincts. The tree of love has been
planted in their hearts and their subtleties, like spies,
secretly spread among people__They worship God
with love while people worship God with practices.
This community looks to God from God, while
people look to God from their worship. They don't
take notice of anyone but God, and they love naught
but Him.3S

Sufis have always existed and worked within groups;

the group has always been needed as a social container. In
spite of the vertical orientation, horizontal relationships
within the group have great validity and value. The Sufi
manuals stress that the so-called “vertical” orientation has
to be grounded by “horizontal” relationships. The “com­
munity,” to use as-Suiami’s idiom, lives within a larger
social container: the family, the town, the land, the culture
of the age. All these are never ignored. In the scheme of
Sufi ethics all have their rights: the right of the father, the
right of the mother, the right of the spouse, the right of the
children, the right of the extended family, the right of the
neighbor, the right of the guest,36the right of civil servants,
the right of the ruler, and so on. Yet all these horizontal
social rights stem from the single central point from which
one is at all times aligned vertically with the heart of the
path, with the Beyond.
It is in this context that I find the following saying,
attributed to Abu Yazid al-Bistami, both intriguing and
stimulating: “What is the most wondrous sign of the
mystic? That he eats with you, drinks with you, jests with
you, buys from you, sells to you, while his heart is in the
Holy Kingdom. This is the most wondrous sign.”37 The
wondrous thing is the coming together of the two dimen­
sions within which the mystic lives. Outwardly he is not
distinguished from any ordinary man or woman. He per­
forms his duties and functions in the world in an ordinary
manner. Nothing proclaims his real state. But inwardly he
is attentive and attuned to a different realm of being.
A wonder this may be, but one that the path prescribes
for all its seekers. In the rules laid down by the Khwajagan,
the practice of this way of being in the world is known as
“Solitude in the Crowd” (khalwat dar anjuman). Such
inner “solitude” in the midst of the hubbub of life with all
its transactions becomes a profound experience when the
vertical and horizontal alignments cross each other. It is
then that the opposites meet; it is then that one becomes
liberated from the unconscious or semi-conscious process
of “identification" with the other, without losing the sense
of true care and empathy. In other words, it is then that one
becomes detached and humble at one and the same time.

It is said that even before the seeker consciously

chooses to follow a certain path or a certain teacher, he has
been inwardly programmed to align with this path or that
teacher. Being “programmed,” or “branded,” (like sheep
by their master) is innate—it is stamped upon the seeker’s
heart of hearts. This is his secret destiny which unfolds in
his life day by day, stage by stage. It pulls him to gravitate,
without clearly knowing why, towards a particular path or
a particular teacher, and through this gravitation he changes.
Sufis have named this attraction jadhb, and those who are
attracted majdhubun. It usually takes a long time to recon­
cile outer life with the inner quest. It takes a long time to
realize that joining a spiritual group, or setting time for the
silent dhikr, is not in itself the goal of the journey. It takes
time to realize that walking on the path is a twenty-four-
hour-a-day job and it includes all the trivialities and petti­
ness of life. It includes “horizontal” relationships as well
as the “vertical” experiences, visions, or big dreams that
the seeker may taste from time to time.
But then there comes a point when the seeker becomes
more or less aware, more or less awakened to the impact of
the inner impression, the naqsh, which has been engraved
(as the word naqsh implies) upon his heart and soul. It is
then that his life in its totality becomes clustered around
the path and cleaves to it as iron cleaves to a magnet. From
that point on, whether he knows it or not, the innate
“programming” becomes an outer reality. The inner law of
the path shapes everything he does, everything he says,
everything he becomes. From that moment on the seeker
lives his everyday life, as well as his inner, spiritual life, in
the presence of the path. The path then becomes for him a
living entity, not a mere concept, nor an image, nor sets of
rules, nor a futuristic anticipation. At this point, whether
semi-consciously or fully conscious, he makes a commit'
ment to follow the path. And from that point on, whether
he knows it or not, he is guidedby the path. If he is attentive
enough, he shall find that in states of confusion and
unknowing, which are the rule on a mystical journey, a hint
will spring up from the innermost of his soul; an indication
will arise, an urge, a dream, a direction. They emerge from
the place in which his “secret” (sirr), his heart of hearts,
meets the heart of the path.
If he trusts this hint, he will be guided by it to act upon
its indication. This is the very essence of the ethics and
etiquette which have passed on to seekers from generations
of earlier travelers on this path. This “code” helps the
seeker to conform unruffled to the laws of the land and
culture in which he lives; it also shows him how to blend
within the social fabric in which life is lived without losing
sight of the inner direction. By following the model of
behavior which the path has set, the seeker learns how to
live in both worlds at one and the same time. “A Wali
(saint) is a balanced person/’ Bhai Sahib told Mrs. Tweedie,

he knows that this world is not a bad one, and he has

to live in both worlds, the spiritual and the physical,
the life on this earth. There is nothing good or bad
for him; good or bad are relative concepts.18

This is a description of a wali, one might argue, an

enlightened being, a “complete human being” (al-insdn al-
kamiiy, what about novices, seekers, muridunl Yet in
essence there are no two laws. As the seeker gravitates
towards the teacher, the teacher becomes for him a model
of the path; he becomes a mirror in which the seeker
contemplates his own heart of hearts, his own innermost
soul. In the mirror of the teacher the seeker sees his soul in
her most ravishing, scintillating beauty which the Beloved
has bestowed on her from eternity. Contemplating the
reflection of his inner form in the mirror of the teacher, the
seeker falls in love with this beauty, and vows to nurture it
and look after it forever. Through this bond of love, the
laws of the beloved teacher become also his laws, his
qualities the seeker’s qualities. On this level of attunement
there are very rarely any significant confusions or muddle-
ups. The seeker simply lives in a state of reciprocal love,
which is felt when the heart expands and becomes forever
softer and warmer.
 “It Id the Function Which
Created the Organ.
Irina Tweedie

The poor of heart offers nothing to God but his poverty.

Abu Hafs
■ ■al-Haddad1
¥
Woe unto thee, if by thy country thou meanest Damascus,
Baghdad, or any other city of the world.
Shihab ad-Din Suhrawardi1

@ w ystical systems vary; some spring from an

unquenched thirst for knowledge, for gnosis', some revolve
around the need to worship and revere; some strive to gain
power over men and demons while others promote the
concept and practice of service; and some come out of a
longing to be absorbed in the Totality of Being. But regard­
less of typological differences, mystical systems share in
common a memory, sometimes dim and opaque, of an
existence in a previous, pre-earthly state of fullness. This
memory gives birth to a nostalgia, to a painful restlessness,
because in a life which is experienced as only partially
lived, nothing can compare with the taste of blissful full­
ness (sa'dda) which this memory carries in its fold. The
Valley of Quest is sought out because of this restless state
of want, because of the desire to fill up an existential
emptiness, because of an urge, hidden in the recesses of the
soul, to become whole, to live wholly. This feeling lies at
the core of man’s efforts towards completion and fulfill­
ment, and this is the bedrock of the mystical quest.
 Mysticism is often identified with unusual experiences
and supranatural phenomena. It is often thought that mys­
ticism is about mysteries of the beyond, but in fact it is
about the mysteries which lie hidden within man’s own
being. As we have repeatedly seen, Sufism teaches that
that which lies within the center of man's being is the
heart. “The word heart has two meanings,” wrote al-
Ghazzali at the end of the 11th century in his monumental
The Revival o f the Religious Sciences,

the cone-shaped [piece of] flesh which is located at

the left side of the chest, ...and a divine and spiritual
subtlety {latifa) connected with the physical heart.
This subtlety is the true essence of man. It is this in
man which perceives and learns and knows.3

The backbone of the mystical path is the quest for a

primordial wholeness. In order to become a whole human
being the seeker has to discover his true nature. This is
why, from a very early stage in its development, the Sufi
tradition has developed a “mystical psychology,” a science
of the self (Him an-nafs), built upon two interrelated
principles. The first principle states that man is created in
the image o f God,4and the second that the knowledge o f the
self leads to the knowledge of God.3 In its deepest sense,
therefore, man’s self-knowledge is the key which opens
the door to his mystical goal, to the end which is also the
beginning: the experience of a life lived fully, wholly, as a
complete human being.
The man who has achieved the state of wholeness
through self-knowledge is a true man. In Sufi terminology
“man” (rajul) is not a gender denomination. It is an indica­
tion, regardless of gender, of a stage and a state in the
seeker’s inner development, be he man or woman. What,
or who, is a true human being? Jalal ad-Din Rumi, in one
of his discourses, offers the following definition:

The man who can do without God and makes no

effort is no man at all; whilst if he were able to
comprehend God, that indeed would not be God.
Therefore the true man is he who is never free from
striving, who revolves restlessly and ceaselessly
about the light of the Majesty of God. And God is
He who consumes man and makes him naught, be­
ing comprehended of no reason.6

According to the Sufi teachers, the knowledge of the

self, ultimately and in essence, leads to the understanding
that “manhood” (rujuliyya) is also “slavehood” ( ‘ubudiyya),
since the reference-point of a genuine self-knowledge is
God, who alone possesses “Lordship” (rububiyya) and
majesty (jalal). Full manhood, therefore, cannot be at­
tained before man becomes aware of his inherent state of
subservience and want. Contemporary seekers, whose spiri­
tual search is often bound up with an introspection based
on modern, ego-focused psychological systems, may find
this double aspect of Sufi manhood challenging.7
In order to “know” these polar aspects of the human
condition as they truly are, man, say the Sufi teachers, has
to acquire special organs of perception, to develop inner,
subtle senses. In science and technology, powerful exten­
sions to our minds and senses have been developed. But in
order to observe man’s true nature, such extensions are not
sufficient; a different kind of senses has to evolve. These,
Sufis say, are the sense-organs of the subtle heart, of that
“divine and spiritual subtlety which... is this in man which
perceives and learns and knows.”
The search for wholeness is therefore a process in
which the inner man is cultivated, a process in which the
functions of the coarse, physical senses are gradually
transmuted into subtle counterparts. “Our path is the path
of alchemy,” writes Najm ad-Din Kubra, who flourished in
the first part of the turbulent 13th century. “The subtle
organ of light (al-latifa an~nuraniyya) has to be extracted
from those [material] mountains.”8 “The five senses are
replaced by other senses,” he goes on to explain,

Other senses open into the unseen (al-ghayb):

eyes, ears, [the sense of] smell, mouth, hands, feet, a
[different level] of being. [A man] sees and hears
and partakes of food from the unseen... and talks
and walks and kicks and reaches distant countries__
What ordinary man realizes in sleep... the wayfarer
(as-sayyar) realizes between sleep and wakefulness.9

How does this transmutation happen? An elaborate

answer is offered by Rumi, to whose theory of evolution
this chapter is devoted. But at heart his answer is simple,
and can be summed up as follows: In order to attain the
sought-for inner transformation, the sincere seeker has to
live in a state of conscious neediness, while being irresist­
ibly attracted to an evolved soul.

This chapter has its starting point in a book about

Rumi’s theory of man’s spiritual evolution, a book which
inspired Mrs. Tweedie years ago. She came across this
book after returning from India to London, when she was
preparing herself for the task for which she had been
trained by her teacher.
“What shall I do when I go back to the West?” she had
asked him.
“Lecture,” Bhai Sahib answered.
“But on what shall I lecture?” she insisted.
“On Sufism.”
“How will I be able to do this? You have taught me
nothing on Sufism; I don’t know much about it,” Mrs.
Tweedie tried to argue.
“You’ll find out.”
Mrs. Tweedie started lecturing for the Theosophical
Society. In her lectures she would often get carried away
by memories of her beloved teacher and the anguished
experiences she had had with him during her stay in India.
Her lectures were based on her own experiences, since she
had taken a vow never to talk on anything except that
which she had experienced herself. Yet when she associ­
ated her own experiences with the Sufi teaching described
in the few books and articles available to her in London (in
the late sixties), she realized how accurately they reflected
her own experiences. Her lectures thus became the records
of a living tradition which was stamped with fire upon her
very being, her very soul.
One day, in the round reading room of the British
Library, she came across a published dissertation, The
Metaphysics o/Rutni, written by Khalifa Abdul Hakim, a
Pakistani scholar, on Rumi’s theory of evolution and
spiritual transformation.10 Reading it, she later said, was
like a revelation. She felt how everything which she had
experienced at Bhai Sahib’s fell into place. The book
confirmed to her the validity of her own experiences and
destiny from the vantage point of the larger Sufi tradition.
It was a confirmation that her training with Bhai Sahib
represented a branch of an ancient yet living mystical tree.
She was part of a chain (silsila) which had proceeded from
time immemorial, the chain of love through which the
mystical teaching is transmitted from teacher to disciple.
“Two things,” she would say, “will always be the same: the
flow of rivers and the ways of love.” Through statements
and quotations brought together by Abdul Hakimin his
book, she could formulate for herself the nature of the
transformation which she had gone through under the
guidance of her teacher: When the need fo r Truth is as
great as the need fo r air, then this function o f need creates
the organ by which Truth can be sought out and attained.
Mrs. Tweedie copied the whole book twice: first by
hand and then, at home, on her typewriter. The typed
script, as well as an implicit indication by Mrs. Tweedie,
initiated the writing of this chapter. It does not purport,
however, to be a summary or a paraphrase of Khalifa’s
dissertation—this will not do justice to the wide spectrum
of erudition covered by Khalifa’s book. Nevertheless, the
central idea which it conveys can be summed up in the
author’s own words:

Life is a journeying back to God; it proceeds

according [to] a process of evolution. The minerals
develop into plants and plants into animals and ani­
mals into man and man into superhuman being, ulti­
mately to reach the starting point—a glorious inter­
 pretation of the Koranic verses, ‘God is the begin­
ning and God is the end,’ and ‘to Him do we return’.11

“[Rumi] teaches,” Abdul Hakimgoes on to say,

that there is only one way of rising from the lower to

the higher stage and that is by assimilation of the
lower into the higher__[Rumi] believed that neces­
sity is not only the mother of invention, it is the
mother of creation as well. Even God would not
have created the heaven and the earth if He had not
been urged by an irresistible inner necessity__For
Rumi ... life is nothing but a product of the will to
live, and ever dissatisfied with the present equip­
ment, life creates new desires, to fulfill which new
organs come into existence.12

In Sufi literature one of the most often quoted extra-

Qur’anic traditions revealed by Allah, a hadith qudsi,
states the purpose of creation in a boldness rarely encoun­
tered in religious traditions. God says: “I was a hidden
treasure, and 1 desired to be known; therefore / created
creation."13Why did God, who is utter fullness, create the
world? Because of a desire, a need to be known. In the
hidden unknownness of God, there was one thing missing:
there was no one to know Him. Thus, the raison d ’etre of
creation is God’s need to be known. Need is, then, the
foundation upon which creation exists. Quoting Rumi,
Abdul Hakimreiterates this idea:

If there were no necessity the seven heavens

would not have stepped out of non-existence; the
sun, the moon and the stars could not have come
into existence, and according to his necessity man is
endowed with organs. Therefore, oh needy one, in-
 crease your need so that God’s Beneficence may be
moved (to bestow new instruments of life on you).14

It was this passage which inspired Mrs. Tweedie in

particular. In the empty space of one line in her typed script
she added by hand the following comment: “It is the
function which creates the organ. ” What, then, is this
organ, and what is the function which creates it?

In his childhood Rumi was uprooted from his native

home in Balkh, one of the main cities of Khurasan, the
capita) of the northeastern province of the Muslim Empire.
At the turn of the 13th century Rumi ’s family emigrated to
Anatoly a—a land then known to the Muslim world as
Rum, and known to us today as Turkey. Just over a century
before Anatolya had been conquered by the Seljuks, a
Muslim dynasty originally from the steppes of Central
Asia and Mongolia, who took it from the old Byzantine
Empire and claimed it for Islam. Konya became the capital
of this fairly new Muslim territory. Jalat ad-Din Rumi and
his family settled there, and soon became respectable
citizens. In the East which they had left behind, a catastro­
phe was impending: fearsome hordes of Mongols were
about to sweep through the cultivated lands of Central
Asia, were about to mercilessly massacre whole communi­
ties, to enslave and rape women and children, to destroy
the sophisticated cultural centers of Persia and Iraq, to
smash the ancient irrigation systems in these lands, and
eventually, in the year 1258—barely forty years after
Rumi’s family had left for the West—they were to elimi­
nate forever the Islamic Caliphate from its old capital
Baghdad.
It was as though Rumi’s father, a reputable master, had
foreseen these coming events in taking his family to the
relative safety of Rum. Here, the young Jalal ad-Din grew
up in a culture which was a hybrid of many ancient
traditions—Greek, Byzantine, Persian, Turkish, Arab—in
a land that for millennia had been the center of cults and
mysteries—Hellenic, Gnostic, Christian. In this alchemi­
cal laboratory Jalal ad-Din’s psyche was forged, distilling
through his own unique experiences of love and longing
his inimitable gift with words, with music, with poetry. His
poetry carries with it the flavor of freedom in the vast
steppes of Central Asia, the courage to leave everything
behind and look for new territories where the heart can
thrive. It is stamped with the commitment to follow to the
very end, earnestly and with passion, the heart’s tribula­
tion on the path to God, allowing the heart to constantly
change, to become freer from judgment, more fluid, “col­
orless and featureless” through the oscillation between the
opposites. At the same time his poetry and didactic prose
demand qualities and ethics which emanate from the vision
of the Highest.
This, perhaps, is why his poetry has been for centuries
a source of inspiration and consolation for many, Muslims
and non-Muslims. A devout Muslim himself, he includes
all who possess a sincere heart in the Religion of Love
(kish-i mehr): Pagans, Christians, Jews, Hindus, heretics—
if the ultimate state is to become featureless and colorless,
what difference do denominations make? His poetry de­
rives from the thirst to transcend the form and to touch the
realm of the essence, and therefore it touches the hearts just
there, where it meets their own thirst for truth.

Rumi’s teaching of man’s evolution, up to a point,

coincides with contemporary medieval beliefs and theo­
ries on the origin of the universe and on the destiny of man.
These theories, sometimes identified as Neoplatonic, were
for centuries widespread among Muslims, Christians, Jews,
and Pagans. Creation is seen in them as a hierarchical
scheme of being, a hierarchy of different planes of exist­
ence. The cosmos was envisaged as a series of concentric
spheres, one within the other, all emanating in a descend­
ing order from the One, the Source, the Eternal. The One,
in His overflowing dark and hidden luminosity, produced
a “sphere,” an “other.” This sphere was identified by
medieval philosophers with the Throne of Glory (al- ‘arsh)t
with the cosmological “all-encompassing sphere” (al-
muhit), or with the Universal Intellect (al-'aql al-kulli).
This sphere, in its turn, out of its own effulgence produced
another sphere, lower than itself, less luminous. Other
spheres of existence emanated in the same way. These are
the spheres of planets and fixed stars. The spheres became
denser and dimmer as their distance from the Source
increased. The lowest sphere was identified with the moon.
Beneath the moon, in what became known as “the sub­
lunar world,” lay our universe—the plane of Nature, which
became populated by man and other living creatures. This
was considered the densest, darkest plane of being. Here,
in a material and temporal world, life is governed by the
law of “generation and corruption,” birth and death. Ev­
erything on this plane is composed of the four elements,
which, unlike the celestial entities above the moon, are
confined by the limitations of time and space.
Seen from the lowermost, this plane, too, reflects a
hierarchical scheme. Inanimate entities—minerals, stones,
metals—are the densest of all phenomena, since they are
the most remote from the Source of Being. As Rumi
intuitively knew, the mineral world only appears to be
inanimate. In fact, it vibrates with the movement of atoms.
Nevertheless, the pace of transformation on this level of
being is so slow that it appears to be lifeless.
Above minerals rises the slightly less compact realm
of plants and trees. Plants are confined to their place; they
are rooted to the earth, but they have freedom of sorts: they
move with the wind, they branch out, they produce leaves,
flowers, fruit.
Above the vegetative realm lies the realm of animals.
Animals are freer than plants or minerals; their makeup is
finer, their developmental rhythm faster. But they are still
remote from the Source. They are governed mainly by
instincts, the most prominent of which is the instinct to
survive. Their range of choices is small.
Man, it was believed, soars above these three planes.
He is on the highest rung of the sub-lunar ladder. His
freedom is greater: the freedom to move and the freedom
to make choices. Yet his plane too, compared with the
celestial spheres, is remote from the Source, dim, dense,
slow. Moreover, man too is part of Nature, made of the four
elements, and governed by the laws of “coming-into-
being” and “passing-away,” fruition and decay.
It was believed that each level of being contains within
it the lower one(s). Human beings thus carry within them,
in an ascending order, mineral, plant, and animal. For man
the process of evolution starts from the moment of concep­
tion. He starts as a drop, the product of the meeting
between a sperm and an egg. In this state he belongs to the
mineral realm. From the drop a fetus develops, a creature
which resembles a minute human being, but is closely
related to the vegetative realm, since it’s rooted to the walls
of the uterus and is fed through the mother. When the fetus
is born it is ruled mainly by instincts, which associate it
with the animal realm: for its survival it needs food,
warmth, security, some basic movement, and a lot of sleep.
Slowly the human infant grows, and as it grows it learns
how to adapt to its environment and circumstances; it
becomes wiser, it learns through mistakes and imitation.
Its mind develops; it learns how to walk, talk, use its hands
and feet, remember things, reason with things, think, ex­
press itself, respond, create. For most medieval people the
mind, the intellect (at- ‘aql), became therefore the highest
stage of development on the hierarchical ladder on the sub­
lunar levels of creation. A human being, by definition, was
conceived of as a creature endowed with mind, and his
“rational soul” (an-nafs an-ndtiqa), which enabled him to
speak, think, and make choices, made him the crown of
creation and the vice-regent of God on earth.
But within the human being there resides another
component, which is not a product of the organic line of
evolution—a subtle entity (latifa) which is not a genuine
native of the sub-lunar world. This is a luminous, spiritual
energy which is sometimes referred to as “soul.” This
celestial entity comes from the Source of all being, from
the Divine Hiddenness. Its origin is the Spirit of God fruh).
“The spirit is of the bidding of my Lord (ar-riih min amri
rabbi),'1says the Qur’an,13and it was therefore understood
to be an impenetrable mystery, know able to no one but
God.16 Within the Spirit of God, the souls of all human
beings were contained in a potential, pre-created state. “In
the realm of the Spirit,” says Rumi, “we all were one
extended substance without beginning and without end:
one substance like the sun, clear and without knots, like
water.”17
How did the soul come to reside in man’s body of clay?
On the mythical Day of Creation God pronounced the
sacred “word” (Logos) “Be!” (kun), and the created being
was.14 All created beings, it was believed—especially in
Sufi circles—angels as well as minerals, were created
through the Divine Logos—all except for human beings.
The clay of their creation was kneaded and shaped by
God’s own hands. 19God created man not by a word, which
comes from Divine Wisdom (hikma), which itself comes
from Divine Power (qudra), but by hand-shaping, which
comes from Divine Love (mahabba). Into the clay shaped
by His hands God breathed His spirit, and the new-created
being, Adam (in Hebrew: [earth-made] man), came into
life. Through the breath of God something was planted
deep within the clay: man’s soul and the seeds of his future
awakening. Upon this hidden entity within, an imprint was
impressed, a memory of that experience at the beginning of
time, an experience of the closest intimacy between man
and God, a memory of sheer fulfillment.
 From the loftiest of all planes, from a state of bliss and
nearness to God, the soul came down to reside within
man’s body as a stranger in a strange land. It descended
through all the celestial spheres, each sphere denser and
darker than the one above, and more remote from Home. It
came down into this sub-lunar world of birth and death.
Here, in the confinement of the earthly body, it became the
hidden counterpart of God’s spirit: “God possesses noth­
ing in the lofty heavens and in the earth more hidden than
man’s spirit.”20The soul is thus part of the Spirit of God:
“God is the origin of the human soul, the asl [!] (origin,
foundation) of it.”21
The soul’s descent has become one of the prevailing
themes of medieval religious and philosophical literature.
Foreign in this world of matter and darkness, illusion and
instability, the soul was placed in an unbearable, tragic
situation. Rumi, like many mystics before and after him,
laments the woeful state of exile in which the soul exists in
this world. The human condition in this world is described
in terms of boundless pains of separation, exile, longing,
and foreignness. In the opening lines of the Mathnawi
Rumi has given one of the most poignant expressions of
these feelings, using the reed, severed from the reed-bed,
as symbol of the soul cut off from her source. His proem,
the opening poem, includes some of the best-known lines
in Sufi poetry, and the heartfelt complaint expressed in
them reverberates in the haunting music of the ney, the
simple reed flute, to this very day:

Listen to the reed how it tells a tale, complaining

of separations—
 Saying, “Ever since I was parted from the reed-
bed, my lament hath caused men and women to moan....
Every one who is left far from his source wishes
back the time when he was united with it.,..
The reed is the comrade of every one who has been
parted from a friend: its strains pierced our hearts.”22

But the soul’s descent from its lofty place of origin to

reside within the human body is for a purpose. Its lamen­
table state of confinement in the dense and dark prison of
the sub-lunar world is in accordance with God’s design: to
enable man to elevate himself from the limitation and
temporality of his corporeal existence in the sub-lunar
plane, and to return to the everlasting vastness of his
celestial Source: “Life is a journeying back to God; it
proceeds according [to] a process of evolution: 'To Him do
we return.’”23
Thus, according to this ancient belief, the process of
man’s evolution does not end within the boundaries of the
sub-lunar world. It ascends on through all the celestial
spheres, towards the realm of the Divine Hiddenness. The
soul was planted within man in order to awaken in him the
memory and longing for his real home, and in order to help
him prepare the organ, the vehicle of transportation, by
which he will be able to make the journey back. This is the
soul's function, and need is the organ which it creates. He
who becomes fully awakened to his soul’s need and to his
primordial nearness to God, he who becomes conscious of
his true desolate position in the hierarchy of being, only he
will commit himself to the efforts and dangers of the
journey back home.
 Awake awake, the sleepy season is over.
The swallow flies, its wings radiate
in the blazing sun.24

Rumi grew up on these beliefs, which for centuries

were shared by Muslims, Christians, Jews, and Pagans.
Many of the philosophers of his time believed that in order
to reach God one had to cultivate and purify the mind, the
intellect. The intellect was highly revered as an instrument
of spiritual contemplation, illumination, and spiritual com­
munion with the Divine; it was believed to be a luminous
spark of the Universal Intellect.
But Rum! knew otherwise. He was trained in the
tradition of lovers. This tradition gives due respect to the
mind, but it knows from experience that the mind is useless
when it comes to penetrating the mysteries of the affinity
and love of soul and God. Mystics and lovers know that, in
order to resurrect the soul’s primordial proximity to God
while on the earthly plane—and without this the soul will
not be able to make its way back home—a faculty other
than the mind is required, another, subtler body of percep­
tion and knowledge. This subtle body is the heart. In
Rumi’s words:

Here the intellect must remain silent, or else

lead us astray. For the heart is with Him—indeed,
the heart is He.2S

The religion of love, more ancient than Islam but

historically connected with Sufism, has always seen the
human heart, not the mind, as the core of man’s being and
as the seat of that special faculty of perception (basira) which
perceives everything from the vantage point of the soul:

Oh, (there is) many a one whose eye is awake

and whose heart is asleep: what, in truth, should be
seen by the eyes of creatures of water and clay?
(But) he that keeps his heart awake—though the
eye of his head may sleep, it (his heart) will open a
hundred eyes.
... B e a w a k e ..., be a se e k e r o f th e (illu m in e d )
h eart....
But if your heart hath been awakened, sleep sound:
thy (spiritual) eye is not absent from the seven
(heavens) and the six (directions).26

The heart, which Divine Wisdom has designed for the

function of communicating with the unseen, contains the
subtle organs of perception as tiny seeds, as imperceptible
potentialities. For the true function of the soul to come to
fruition, these organs have to be awakened and cultivated.
This is man’s greatest task on earth. Not only does it take
a lifetime of pain and effort, but it requires also the ability
and resolution to face, with open eyes, fear, loneliness, and
death.

Before a new organ of perception can be developed,

the human being has to become “dissatisfied with the
present equipment o f life. ” He must be aware of a need
which cannot be fulfilled by the old sense organs, a need
which does not belong to the field of worldly desires, a
hunger which cannot be met by satisfying the cravings of
the appetite. This need has to grow in him to immense
proportions, to acquire a devastating magnitude. Other-
wise no substantial change from the state of dissatisfaction
and disillusionment will take place, only shilly-shallying
with fantasies about change. Addicts “know” this quality
of need, but how to describe it to non-addicts?
Mrs. Tweedie tells the story of the fish who were
separated from each other. When the primordial sea, which
had covered the whole of the planet, became fragmented,
and when pieces of dry land separated sea and sea, then
some fish longed to reunite with their mates in other seas,
and their longing was as great as their despair, because
they did not have an organ by which to make the journey
to that other bit of sea. They were stuck in an agonizing
state, and were slowly dying of longing. Many centuries
passed, perhaps millennia, but the painful longing did not
subside. The fish were dying of it in their multitudes, day
by day, year by year, eon by eon. Then one day, a miracle:
a little tail, small feet, tiny claws to clutch the earth with.
Some fish, with tremendous will power, managed to pull
themselves up and out of the sea and onto the earth.
Gradually they learned how to breathe, how to crawl, how
to hop, how to walk, how to run, how to climb up moun­
tains, how to climb down deep canyons. They could move
from their little bit of sea to the vast ocean of their
primordial being. But first they had to die of despair and
longing. New organs were miraculously created because
there was such a great need for them in the fish.
This fable does not reflect a biological observation,
and it has little to do with Darwin’s theory of evolution or
with later theories of mutation. Most modern theories of
evolution are based on a concept of mechanistic, acciden­
tal, blind sequences of events, while this theory of spiritual
evolution is based on a revelatory, purposeful, and painful
process, in which man collaborates consciously with the
Divine Will. This process stems from the inner awakening
to the fundamental need to return to the source, to the
beginning. The awakening is kept in motion by the longing
to merge into a higher plane of being.
“Every Being has its fixed place [in the Hierarchy of
Creation],” writes Khalifa,

and only in its fixed place it receives its share of

Life and Perfection, which is communicated to it by
a Being next higher to it, and which it has in turn to
communicate to the one immediately lower than
itself.27

With Rumi there is no development by chance

variation. For him development consists in the ere-
ation of an ever-increasing need for expansion and
by assimilation into a higher organism.28

In the essence of all created beings lies the need to

become fuller, more complete, to develop into a higher,
subtler species. This need becomes experienced as pas­
sionate love, as desire ( ‘ishq)t for that which is seen as
more complete, more perfect, more luminous:

All the processes of assimilation, growth and

reproduction are manifestations of Love. Without
Love there would have been no movement in the
Universe.... The indeterminate matter is made to
assume, by the inner force of love, various forms
and rise higher and higher in the scale of beauty
which is identical with perfection.29
 In the following lines Rumi sings the praises of the
alchemical, transformative power of love (and note the
punch-line):

Through Love all that is bitter will be

sweet.
Through Love all that is copper will be
gold.
Through Love all dregs will turn to purest
wine.
Through Love all pain will turn to
medicine.
Through Love the dead will all become
alive.
Through Love the king will turn into a
slave!J0

But what is love? In essence it is a state of need. The

lover is in need of the beloved, since the beloved reflects
something which the lover senses as missing in himself.
The experience of love exposes a veiled, unconscious
desire to unite with an idealized partner who will supply
the bits missing in oneself. But Rumi stresses that when
this need awakens, rather than fulfilled it has to be sus­
tained. Need, he argues, creates the primary vehicle of
change, evolution, and growth. Without need there is no
desire; without desire there is no movement. Therefore, to
perpetuate the state of need is more conducive to change
than to satisfy it.

They say in the end, love is the want and need

for something. Hence need is the root, and the needed
thing is the branch. I say: After all, when you speak,
you speak out of need. Your need brings your words
 into existence__ So need is prior, and the words
came into being from it__The branch is always the
goal—the tree’s roots exist for the sake of its
branches.31

So the noose of all existences is need: Man’s

instrument is the extent of his need.
So, oh needful man, quickly increase your need!
Then the Sea of Bounty will gush forth in generos­
ity.32

Where there are questions, answers will be given;

where there are ships, water will flow.
Spend less time seeking water and acquire thirst!
Then water will gush from above and below.33

In order for an evolutionary change to occur, the need

has to be immense and conscious. Sometimes there is a
need, but it’s not strong enough; the longing for fullness
has not yet reached sufficient intensity. The seeker can
somehow survive, can learn to hide behind psychological
defenses, so that the sense of emptiness is less painful. He
suffers, but not enough; he is thirsty, but not yet dying of
thirst. He is afraid of losing the relative comfort of a
lukewarm, chronic state of frustration. But in this process,
the Sufi teaching reiterates, only when the seeker reaches
a state of despair beyond comfort or consolation will he be
able to let go of his painful—yet familiar—patterns of
survival. It is not easy to relinquish the familiar for a
change whose consequences are unknown, unforeseeable.
Therefore the need for change has to become as great as the
need for air of a drowning man: “If you want Truth as badly
as a drowning man wants air, you will realize it in a split-
second.”34
In the pursuit of this creative need, Ruml’s philosophy
turns the logic of conventional pragmatism upside down.
We need comfort, therefore we create comfortable things;
we need warmth, so we create shelters, clothes, fire, heat­
ers, air-conditioning; we become self-sufficient in order to
alleviate the pain of want. Rumi says: No, don’t create
anything to fill your emptiness; don't run away from the
innate need of your soul.

Remember what the soul wants,

because in that, eternity
is wanting our souls!

Which is the meaning of the text,

They love That, and That loves them.3*

Don’t rush to find a solution to your neediness, says

Rumi; stay with it, acknowledge it, live with it, live it,
become more and more needy, more and more thirsty,
colder, poorer, more helpless: “I shall cry and cry until the
milk of compassion will boil up on Your lips.” This
wisdom, says Rumi, is known to every infant:

I wonder at this tiny infant who cries, and its

mother gives it milk. If it should think, “What profit
is there in crying? What is it that causes milk to
come?”—then it would not receive any milk. But
we see that it receives milk because of its crying. “

Growth comes out of need. When neediness becomes

intolerable, then a new organ is created out of the needy
one’s own potentiality. This is the as-yet-unlived potenti­
ality which the soul has planted in the heart. The inner
organs of perception, the eyes and the ears of the heart, are
given a new intelligence, a new outlook, a new direction,
new possibilities. This is how Rumi advocates it in his
direct, passionate, provocative language:

The cry was heard, “Oh seeker, come! Like a

beggar, bounty is in need of beggars!”37

God has given hunger to His elect so that they

may become mighty lions.38

Pain is an alchemy that renovates—where is

indifference when pain intervenes?
Beware, do not sigh coldly in your indifference!
Seek pain! Seek pain, pain, pain!34

Where there is pain, the cure will come; where

the land is low, water will run.
If you want the water of mercy, go, become
low! Then drink mercy’s wine and become drunk!40

God’s Mercy is water—it moves only towards

low ground. I will become dust and Mercy’s object
in order to reach the All-Merciful.41

Besides the fear of pain there is another fear which has

to be faced on the path of evolution: the fear of death. Every
new form is bom out of a dying old one:
 This process of dying to live is represented by
organic life. Inorganic matter becomes organic by
dying to itself and living a higher life in the plant
and so can the plant be exalted into still higher life
by dying unto itself and living in the animal. The
whole course of evolution is an illustration of the
principle of dying to live.42

Can the seeker easily give up the old organs in order to

acquire new ones? Can he learn to surrender to the demand
“Die before you die?”43 “Die inside your life, and go on
living," advocates Rumi, paradoxically. His view of death
as a prerequisite for birth encompasses the whole range of
possibilities open to him who desires to live as a true
human being. The soul of such a one knows no limits. In
verses often quoted, he exclaims:

I died as a mineral and became a plant

I died as plant and rose to animal,
I died as animal and I was man.
Why should I fear? When was I less by dying?
Yet once more I shall die as man, to soar
With angels blest: but even from angelhood
I must pass on: all except God doth perish.
When I have sacrificed my angel soul,
I shall become what no mind e’er conceived.
Oh, let me not exist! for Non-existence
Proclaims in organ tones, “To Him we shall return”.44

The soul ascends the ladder of evolution with the

power of love. On every step it is reminded of the vast, free
spaces of home where the Beloved abides. The remem­
brance of the old, forgotten taste of the homeland, the real
homeland, gives the soul the courage to die to the known
and to leap into the unknown. The lament of separation
then turns into a song of jubilation:
 How should the soul not take wings
when from the Glory of God
It hears a sweet, kindly call:
“Why are you here, soul? Arise!”
How should a fish not leap fast
into the sea from dry land
When from the ocean so cool
the sound of the waves reached its ear?
How should the falcon not fly
back to his king from the hunt
When from the falconer’s drum
it hears the call: “Oh, come back!”?
Why should not every Sufi
begin to dance atom-like
Around the Sun of duration
that saves from impermanence?
What graciousness and what beauty!
What life-bestowing! What grace!...
Oh fly, oh fly, O my soul-bird,
fly to your primordial home!45

The willingness to sustain the need, or poverty, of the

heart has to be made conscious; there has to be a conscious
readiness to endure pain, a willingness to pay the price of
evolution. The suffering the seeker is bound to encounter
on the soul’s journey has to be intentional and conscious.
But one cannot overcome the fear of suffering and dying by
oneself alone. For the soul’s need to surface into full
consciousness, the seeker has to be under the influence of
a higher being. Alone, he may glimpse what it is that the
soul wants, but it is almost impossible for these glimpses
to ignite fully the sacred fire within. For such an ignition
to take place one needs a sun, a shams, someone who is
nearer the Truth, with whom one shall fall in love, and who
will expose that which is fundamentally wanted.
Rumi, we saw, talks about the desire to develop into a
higher species out of love for that species: the moon falls
in love with the sun (shams); Rumi falls in love with his
own Shams. When Rumi met Shams ad-Din of Tabriz, he
immediately knew, in a flash, all that he had unconsciously
longed to know all along.46 Shams, the Complete Man, al-
insan al-kamil, compared with whom all things fade as a
mirage, was for him a whiff of Reality, a scent of that
Divine Truth, as real and substantial as it is elusive and
mercurial. There is another scheme of things which be­
longs to that type of man who has attained the state of total
poverty and freedom. In this state there are no compro­
mises; he is pure, empty, translucent, one-pointed. Rumi
had these qualities within him, but in an embryonic, poten­
tial form. He needed this encounter with Shams; it hit him
so brutally that he immediately awoke to his own power,
his own truth. From that moment on, the old Rumi died. He
had to die. In the face of Reality reflected in Shams,
nothing else mattered; everything else was eclipsed, banal,
empty. The choice, if there was any, was either this or
nothing. His disciples were jealous; they were inwardly
dying, and were plotting murder out of jealousy. There can
be no fiercer jealousy than what they experienced. Mevlana,
their own light, had left them. They had nothing to do with
that wandering, ragged Dervish who completely took over
their master. They could do nothing but witness how he had
taken away their light.
 When the desire for the loved one is total, everything
devoid of him becomes boring, empty, dead. Apathy takes
over. Anyone who has ever experienced falling in love
knows this simple and profound truth. When the loved one
is around, there is a sense of fullness; everything, even
trivialities, becomes full of meaning: every gesture, every
turning of the head, every sound, every footstep. But then
the beloved is taken away, and everything becomes dull
and boring. Everyone who has gone through the early
intimations of falling in love knows these feelings. And
this is not yet passion, not just yet, only a sense of the
fullness of meaning, of an imminent potency which makes
existence meaningful, worthwhile, full of sense and sensu­
ality, One lives for this experience; everything else exists
only in order to fill the emptiness which the absence of this
experience creates.
Now this is so, says Rumi, on every level of being. Not
just human beings live in order to experience thsaliveness,
the fullness of being which comes through love; all things
live for love. Atoms, flint stones, pieces of straw, leaves,
dogs and butterflies, clouds, little children, angels, galax­
ies—all are in a constant state of agitation because of the
pull of love:

God’s wisdom made us lovers of one another.

In fact, all the particles of the world
are in love and looking for lovers.

Pieces of straw tremble

in the presence of amber.
We tremble like iron filings
welcoming the magnet....
 The desire of each lover is
that the work of the other be perfected.
By this man-and-woman cooperation,
the world gets preserved.
Generation occurs....
Every part of the cosmos draws toward its mate.47

The goal of the attraction for the higher and more

perfect, says Rumi, is procreation. Not the instinctual,
chronological line of procreation, but that which marks a
stage on the upward journey home. Every new generation
that comes into being creates another rung on the evolu­
tionary ladder. Every step on the ladder of conscious
evolution emerges from an a wakening to the beauty of the
loved one. Loving, we long to unite with the beloved;
desiring, we desire to become the beloved. This is the
pinnacle of the inner journey, and Rumi’s eloquence pro­
claims this attainment triumphantly:

For a time you were the four elements, for a

time an animal. Now you have been a spirit, so
become the Beloved! Become the Beloved!48

When a mineral turns its face toward the plant

kingdom, life grows up from the tree of its good
fortune.
Every plant that turns toward the spirit drinks
from the fountain of life, like Khidr.
Then when the spirit turns toward the Beloved,
it spreads its bedroll in everlasting life.49

Every fine therapist, every sensitive schoolteacher,

knows how powerful love is for healing and growth. In
therapy the patient falls in love with the therapist, what­
ever shape this love takes. In school, pupils are attracted to
the teacher more than to the subject taught. Sometimes
such an early attraction shapes our life for years to come,
and is very fruitful. We learn and make progress through
inspiration, through attraction. Through inspiration and
attraction we become ready to exert ourselves, willingly,
in the effort of the therapeutic process, or the effort of
mastering a subject, or training for a profession, or com­
mitting ourselves to the hardships of the mystical path.
But who inspires? He who is inspired. Who creates a
desirous passion in us? He who is himself a passionate
lover. All of creation is an ascending ladder made of lovers
and loved ones. Ultimately, in the whole of creation there
are only lover and Beloved.50

Indeed, no lover seeks union without his be­

loved seeking him__
When the lightning of love for the loved one
flashes in this heart, know that there is also love in
that heart.
When love for God has doubled in your heart,
without doubt God has love for you__
This thirst in our souls is the attraction of the
Water—we belong to It and It belongs to us.51

Rumi teaches that behind the pains of separation, the

loneliness of the dark night of the soul, the unrequited
loves, the missed opportunities, behind all these ever-
changing stations of the battered heart, and through the
repeated disappointments of earthly relationships, one
gains access to the only love-experience which is uncondi­
tionally given, the love affair with the sacred within.
 It is not easy to distinguish between the attraction
which comes from sensual impulses and psychological
neediness and the attraction which arises from the need of
the soul. This is part of the muddle-up of being a human
being. A human being is by definition a muddled-up,
compound entity. Therefore it is very rare to have an
experience of love purely from the soul's level. But the
mystical teaching of evolution upholds that man is evolv­
ing towards that which he had been before. Here, in the
clay body, man is not whole, he cannot be complete; yet in
his depth he carries an image of wholeness and the seeds of
completeness.

One of the impacts of a meeting with ashams, with one

on a higher rung on the ladder of conscious evolution, is the
awakening of remorse, repentance, tawba. A meeting with
such a magnetic center can have, if one is ripe for the
experience, a dramatic effect on one's psyche. Questions
grab hold of one that won’t let go: What have I done with
my life? How have I messed it up so carelessly? How have
I given up that which is most sacred in me? How did I
neglect the noble function which is my true birthright?
It's hard to describe the intensity of this kind of
remorse. It does not arise out of fear of confronting an
authority figure, or a repentance in the wake of transgress­
ing a religious commandment. Rather, it’s a powerful,
painful response to the sudden awakening of that sub­
stance, that faculty, that talent which one has ignored and
slighted. Consider, for example, a person who used to be a
competent horse-rider but then neglected his talent out of
laziness or disregard. When he meets a rider who is free,
noble, in tune with his horse, exhilarated, fulfilled, then
remorse, more painful than envy, will rise in him. He
realizes that he has neglected the perfection of a function
which has been given to him as grace. He has not listened
with his heart’s ears to his inner need to cultivate and
complete this function. When the seeker’s soul comes in
contact with a soul which has perfected itself, he repents
his heedlessness, compromises, excuses. Some are terri­
fied of such a meeting. It is a fear of being exposed, of
being found out, like the fear of Adam and Eve in the
Garden of Eden, who hid from God out of guilt, fear, and
shame. One of the functions of a meeting with such a man
or woman is to force these inhibiting but semi-conscious
feelings into the open. Without the conscious effort of
facing them, the alchemical process in which the dross is
burnt away can’t take place. This is part of the preparation
for death (al-istVddd lil-mawt), the death of the old self.
When the old self dies, like an old potato, the subtle organs
can bud. The impact and consequence of such a meeting is
one of the implications of the statement “It is the function
which creates the organ."
Many years ago, in Gurdjieff s Meetings with Remark­
able Men, I came across an account of an awakening which
occurred as a result of a meeting with an evolved human
being. This account made a deep impression on me. In
many ways it has remained for me a signpost ever since.
Here are a few passages from this account:
 Far to the south arose the majestic snow-capped
peak of the Elbruz, with the great chain of the Cau­
casian mountains__ Silence reigned all around. No
one was on the mountain.... We sat down on a rock
and began to eat__ Suddenly my glance rested on
the face of Professor Skridlov and I saw that tears
were streaming from his eyes.
‘What’s the matter, old fellow?’ I asked him.
‘Nothing’, he answered, drying his eyes, and
then added:
*.,. What has just happened, has happened to me
many times during this period. It is very difficult to
explain what takes place in me when I see or hear
anything majestic which allows no doubt that it pro­
ceeds from the actualization of Our Maker Creator,
Each time, my tears flow of themselves. I weep, that
is to say, it weeps in me, not from grief, no, but as if
from tenderness. I became so, gradually, after meet­
ing Father Giovanni, whom you remember we met
together in Kafiristan, to my worldly misfortune.
‘After that meeting my whole inner and outer
world became for me quite different.... There took
place, as it were by itself, a revaluation of all values.
‘Before that meeting, I was a man wholly en­
grossed in my own personal interests and pleasures,
and also in the interests of my children. I was al­
ways occupied with thoughts of how best to satisfy
my needs and the needs of my children.... All my
manifestations and experiencings flowed from my
vanity. The meeting with Father Giovanni killed all
this, and from then on there gradually arose in me
that “something” which has brought the whole of
me to the unshakeable conviction that, apart from
the vanities of life, there exists a “something else”
which must be the aim and ideal of every more or
less thinking man, and that it is only this something
else which may make a man really happy and give
him real values, instead of the illusory “goods” with
which in ordinary life he is always and in everything
fu ll”
 When the soul awakens, all values change. All is seen
now from the soul’s vantage point. Every art form, any­
thing we create, if it lacks that dimension of attraction
to a superior sun, becomes temporal, boring, and self-
indulging. Sufis say, “For the Sufi only the best is good
enough: best clothes, best food, best experiences, the
best Friend.” Behind this statement lies a commitment
that sooner or later every sincere seeker must make: to
strive for the flowering and maturation of the very best in
him, in her, to dedicate his inner as well as his outer life to
the best functioning of the soul which, if God so wills, will
create the organ with which to live wholly as a complete
human being.
Bibliography

Index
 Chapter 1, THE NICHE OF LIGHT, pages 1-22

1. Rumi, Mathnawi, II, 1157, quoted in Eva de Vitray-

Meyerovitch, Rfimt and Sufism, p. 88.
2. Ismail Hakki Bursevi’s translation of Ibn al-‘ArabI,
Kernel of Kernel, p. 45.
3. Al-Qushayri, Ar-Risala, p. 35 (trans. SS, slightly
abridged).
4. Al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi, Nawadir ah us it l, p. 258.
5. Al-Hakim at-Tirmidh!, Ghawr al-umur, fols. 42b-43a.
6. Al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi, Nawadir al-usul, p. 338; see also
Masa’il ahl Sarakhs, p. 165 (Arabic text).
7. Al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi, Manazil al-'ibad, fol. 228b.
8. Al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi, Kitdb ar-riyafia, p. 71. (Passages
from at-Tirmidhi’s works trans. and paraphrased SS.)
9. Baydn al-farq bayna as-sadr wal-qalb wal-fu'ad wal-
lubb, pp. 35 ff.
10. Habb, seed, is etymologically and semantically linked
with hubb and mahabba—Arabic for love. Al-Qushayri writes:
“It is said that ‘love’ (mahabba) derives from ‘seed’ (habb),
for the seed of the heart is that which gives it vigor.... Love is
named hubb because it is the marrow (lubdb) of life”; see Ar-
Risala, p. 190. On the different "stations of the hearts”
according to Abu al-Husayn an-Nuri, a 9th- and 10th-century
mystic from Baghdad, see Schimmet, Mystical Dimensions of
Islam, pp. 60f.
11. ‘Attar, The Conference of the Birds, pp. 55-6 (11.
1152ff.).
12. See Kitdb ar-riyd<la wa-adab an-nafs, pp. 116ff. For the
hadith “God holds the heart between two of His fingers,” see
Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 197.
13. For this term and the paradox of freedom in slavehood,
see below, ch. 2 (Effort), p. 31.
14. As-Sulami, Faslfi ghalatdt as-sufiyya (Chapter on the
errors of the Sufis), p. 332 (trans. SS).
15. Ibn al-‘Arabi, Al-Futuhdt al-makiyya, II, 113.33, quoted
in Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 109 (emphasis
SS).
 16. On the ultimate annihilation in a state of colorlessness
and featurelessness, see below, ch. 7 (Color), pp. 155-63,
17. ‘Abd al-Qadir al-JIlani is the eponym of one of the early
Sufi paths (turuq), the Qadiriyya; on him and on the tariqa
which bears his name, see J. S. Trimingham, The Sufi Orders
in Islam, pp. 40ff.
18. The Secret of Secrets, trans. Shaykh Tosun Bayrak al-
Jerrahi al-Halveti, p. 87.
19. The Koran Interpreted, pp. 356-7.
20. ‘Abd al-Qadir al-JIlani, The Secret o f Secrets, p. xlvii.
21. ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani, The Secret o f Secrets, pp. xlvii-
xlviii.
22. Quoted in Corbin, The Man of Light in Iranian Sufism,
pp. 72, 73.
23. Quoted in Corbin, The Man of Light in Iranian Sufism,
p. 73 (emphasis SS).
24. Al-Qushayri, Ar-Risala, p. 31.
25. Kitdb ild Muhammad ibn al-Fadlal-Balkhi, Ms. Leipzig
212, fol. 15b.
2 6 ,1. Tweedie, Daughter o f Fire, pp. 266-7.
27. On hdl as synonymous also with lawn, color, see below,
ch. 7 (Color), pp. 149ff.
28. The Arabic text reads: wa-amma wajd as-sufiyya fa-
musadafat al-ghayb bil-ghayb; see Adah al-muluk, ed. Bemd
Radtke, p.68,1. 19 (trans. SS).
29. Rumi, Dlvdn-i Kebtr, verse 274, p. 57.
30. ‘Attar, The Conference of the Birds, p. 54.
31. A fine study dedicated to Sufi shatahdt is Carl Ernst’s
Words of Ecstasy in Sufism; see especially Part I, ch. B/l:
“Selfhood,” pp. 25-8.
32. Quoted in Car! Ernst, Words of Ecstasy, p. 27. On Abu
Yazld’s ecstatic exclamations, see also Schimmel, Mystical
Dimensions of Islam, p. 49. Compare with Rumi’s powerful
version “Bestami” in Delicious Laughter, versions Coleman
Barks, pp. 30-31 (Mathnawi, IV, 2102-2148).
33. See Carl Ernst, Words of Ecstasy, p. 20. See also
Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, pp. 62-9 (and also
index). See also Louis Massignon, The Passion of al-Halldj,
vol. I, pp. 126ff.; and Massignon, Hallaj, Mystic and Martyr,
pp. 64ff. Compare with ‘Attar’s poetic account in The Confer-
ence o f the Birds, pp. 220-22.
 34. Michaela Ozelsel, Forty Days, The Diary of a Tradi­
tional Solitary Sufi Retreat, pp. 93-4.
33. For this hadith qudsi (an extra-Qur’anic saying attrib­
uted to Allah), see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam,
p. 190.
36. ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jllani, The Secret o f Secrets, p. 85.

Chapter 2, EFFORT AND THE EFFORTLESS PATH,

pages 23-45
1. Quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 120.
2. Quoted in Ozelsel, Forty Days, p. 92.
3. Psychological terminology can be confusing when the
same term is used with different connotations. Nafs can
sometimes stand for “soul,” especially in philosophical texts,
in which instance it is viewed as a subtle, lofty entity which
resides within the human heart or mind. In Sufi texts, how­
ever, more often than not, nafs has a pejorative connotation.
“Self’ as a rendering of nafs should not be confused with the
way Self is understood in Analytical Psychology : “An arche­
typal image of man’s fullest potential.... A unifying principle
within the human psyche [which] occupies the central posi­
tion of authority in relation to psychological life, and there­
fore, the destiny of the individual”; see Andrew Samuels, A
Critical Dictionary o f Jungian Analysis, p. 135.
4. In a famous hadith the Prophet Muhammad says: “The
worst enemy you have is the nafs between your sides”; see
Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 112.
5. I wish to extend my gratitude to N. for his poems.
6. This well-known phrase was coined by Plotinus, a
mystical philosopher from Late Antiquity, whose so-called
Neoplatonic philosophy inspired mystics as well as philoso­
phers in Late Antiquity and in the Middle Ages.
7. See, e.g., Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions o f Islam, p.
189; see also below, ch. 9 (Function), p. 188. For a wide
perspective on ancient and medieval sources for this and
similar formulations of the dictum Know thyself!, see
Alexander Altmann, “The Delphic Maxim in Medieval Islam
and Judaism,” pp. 1-40.
8. See Hujwiri, Kashf al-Mahjiib, p. 32.
 9. Al-Qushayri, Ar-Risala, p. 47 (trans. SS),
10. Al-Hujwiri, Kashf al-Mahjub, p. 181 (emphasis SS).
11. For the intricate psychology of riya' in more detail, see
Sara Sviri, “Hakim Tirmidhi and the Maldmati Movement in
Early Sufism” in Classical Persian Sufism: from its Origins
to Rumi, pp. 583-613; see also Sviri, “The Mysterium
Coniunctionis and the ‘Yo-Yo Syndrome’: From Polarity to
Oneness in Sufi Psychology” in Jung and the Monotheisms,
p. 202.
12. Michaela Ozelsel, Forty Days, pp. 56-7.
13. Translation SS, based on Radtke (ed.), Sirat al-awliyd
pp. 14-17, paras. 26-32 (Arabic text).
14. See also Qur’an 3:54, 13:42.
15. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 221. For Mrs. Tweedie’s
diary as a Sufi document describing the teacher-disciple
relationship, see Sviri, “Daughter of Fire by Irina Tweedie:
Documentation and Experiences of a Modem Naqshbandi
Sufi” in Puttick and Clarke (eds.), Women As Teachers and
Disciples in Traditional and New Religions, pp. 77-89.
16. The above quotations have been culled and paraphrased
from Massignon, The Passion ofal-Hallaj, vol. 3, pp. 113 -16.
17. Rumi, Diwan-i Shams-i Tabrizl, no. 1723, quoted in
Chittick, The Sufi Path of Love, p. 345.
18. Bhai Sahib in Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 187.
19. Dhu ‘I-Faqar is the name of the sword of ‘All, the
Prophet's son-in-law and the fourth Caliph; it symbolizes
death and martyrdom.
20. Rumi, Mystical Poems 1-200, trans. A. J. Arberry, pp.
116-17 (no. 139/1095).
21,1 wish to extend my gratitude to Margaret Sampson for
this insight.
22. For more on al-Hallaj’s three phases, see Massignon,
The Passion ofal-Hallaj (trans. H. Mason), vol. 3, pp. 40-41.
23. On these Qur’anic attributes of nafs in Sufi psychology,
see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 112.
24. For a statement made by al-Junayd in which he quotes
this verse to describe a state of sobriety in ecstasy, see below,
ch. 6 (Dhikr). pp. 127-8.
25. In a well-known hadith Moses asks God: “Oh, God, who
are your Friends (awliya')T' God answers: “Those who are
remembered when I am remembered, and when they are
remembered, I am remembered." See, e.g., al-Hakim at-
Tirmidhi, Si rat al-awliya ’, p. 57, para. 80 (Arabic text; trans.
SS).
26. For this hadith, known as hadith an-nawdfil (nawdfil:
supererogatory acts of worship), see Schimmel, Mystical
Dimensions o f Islam, pp. 43, 133, 144, 277.
27. For the mystical state of ‘ayn al-jam‘, see also above,
ch. 1 (Niche), p. 11.
28. Quoted in Massignon, The Passion of al-Hallaj, pp. 41-3.

Chapter 3, DREAMS AND DESTINY, pages 46-76

1. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographica Literaria or
Biographical Sketches of My Literary Life and Opinions, ed.
G. Watson, p. 176 (with thanks to Jeni Couzyn for this
quotation).
2. Thomas Merton, The Mystic Life, a series of talks on
Sufism given at Gethsemani Monastery, unpublished; quoted
in Terry Graham, “Sufism: the ‘Strange Subject’. Thomas
Merton’s Views on Sufism” in SUFI, issue no. 30, Summer
1996, p. 39.
3. Al-Futuhdt al-makkiyya, II, 684.4, quoted in William
Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 154 (emphasis SS).
4. Carl G. Jung, The Archetypes and the Collective Uncon­
scious, Collected Works vol. 9i, p. 283, para. 506.
5. Jung, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche,
Collected Works vol. 8, p. 348, para. 673.
6. Jung, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, p. 349,
para. 673.
7. Jung, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, p. 190,
para. 388.
8. Jung, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, p. 190,
para. 388.
9. Gerhard Adler, Dynamics of the Self, pp. 34ff.
10. Rumi, Mathnawi, I, 3157-3168, in Coleman Barks
(versions), Delicious Laughter, pp. 94-5. Note Joseph’s words
to his brothers, according to the Qur’an, when they reunite in
Egypt: “This is the interpretation of my old dream. God has
fulfilled it” (12:101).
11. Henri Corbin, who studied imagination in Islamic
mystical philosophy, writes: “This imagination does not
construct something unreal, but unveils the hidden reality”;
see his Spiritual Body and Celestial Earth, p. 12 (emphasis
HC). See also Corbin, Creative Imagination in the Sufism of
Ibn ‘Arabi, “Introduction,” pp. 6ff. On imagination and its
boundaries, see below, ch. 7 (Color), pp. 150ff.
12. This Qur ’anic verse reads: “He let forth the two seas that
meet together, between them a barrier they do not overpass”;
see The Koran Interpreted, p. 557.
13. Quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 117.
14. Quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 115.
On the world of the imaginal as barzakh, see Corbin, Avicenna
and the Visionary Recital, e.g., p. 161: “...changing the
appearances of things, walking on water, climbing Mount
Qaf... are psychic events whose scene and action are set in
neither the sensible nor the intelligible worlds, but in the
intermediate world of the Imaginable, the ‘dlam al-mithdl...
the place of all visionary recitals. Now, this world is also
called barzakh as interval extending between the intelligible
and the sensible. It is the world in which spirits are
corporealized and bodies spiritualized" (emphasis SS).
15. Quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path o f Knowledge, p, 118.
16. Ibn al-‘Arabi relates this expression to a dictum
attributed to the 9th-century mystic Abu SaTd al-Kharraz
who, when asked, “Through what have you known God?”
answered: “Through the fact that He brings opposites together”;
see Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 115. See also
Corbin, Creative Imagination in the $ufism o f Ibn ‘Arabi,
pp. 188, 209.
17. On the coincidence o f opposites in Sufism, see Sara
Sviri, “Between Fear and Hope: On the Coincidence of
Opposites in Islamic Mysticism,” pp. 316-49-
18. Quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path o f Knowledge, p. 116.
19. Quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path o f Knowledge, p. 119.
20. Quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 119
(emphasis SS).
21. Quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 119.
22. The following paragraphs have been culled from Ibn
al-‘Arabi, Fusus al-hikam, pp. 99ff. (trans. SS).
23. On this hadith, see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions o f
Islam, pp. 382-3. See also below, ch. 4 (Khidr), p. 90.
24. For canonical sources for this hadith, see Chittick, The
Sufi Path o f Knowledge, p. 396, n. 6.
25. On the form of Dihya al-Kalbi, a handsome Arab youth,
which the angel Gabriel assumed in the Prophet’s vision, see
Corbin, Creative Imagination, pp. 217, 223-4.
26. Ibn al-‘ArabI, Fusus al-hikam, pp. 99ff. (trans. SS).
27. See al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi, Buduww sha'n, pp. 315-43.
See also Radtke, “Tirmidiana Minora, ” pp. 242-98.
28. See al-Hujwiri, Kashf al-Mahjub, pp. 210ff. See also
Chodkiewicz, Seal o f the Saints, pp. 27-32.
29. See Radtke (ed.). Si rat al-awliya’, pp. 66-7 (Arabic
text; trans. SS).
30. For a dream of Ibn al-‘Arab!’s wife, Maryam, recorded
by her husband, see Ralph Austin, Sufis o f Andalusia, pp.
22-3.
31. English translation of all passages from at-Tirmidhi’s
autobiography by Sara Sviri, based on Buduww sha'n, ed.
Muhammad Khalid Masud, Islamic Studies 4 (1965), pp.
315-43.
32. The fact that at-Tirmidhi wakes up sitting in the same
position as in the dream may suggest that the dreaming took
place in a mosque. If this be so, it may reflect a kind of
istikhdra, an Islamic practice which echoes the ancient ritual
of dream incubation.
33. For the hadith “He who sees me in a dream sees [really]
me, for Satan cannot embody me” (man ra 'a n ifi'l-manamfa-
qad ra 'dnifa-inna ‘sh-shay tan Id yastatVu an yatamaththala
bi ), see al-Hakim at-Tirmidhi, Nawadir al-usul, p. 116.
34. The text reads ‘afd *anni, which may also be rendered
“He has released me, He has set me free.”
35. See Radtke, “The Concept of Wilaya in Early Sufism,”
p. 490.
36. On at-Tirmidhi’s link with Khidr in later accounts of his
*

life, see ‘Attar, Muslim Saints and Mystics, pp. 244-6. See
also below, ch. 4 (Khidr), pp. lOOf.
37. Qur’an 21:47.
38. “The Inhabited House,” al-baytal-ma ‘mur, reference to
Qur’an 52:4.
39. See Hujwiri, Kashf al-Mahjub, p. 214. See also Radtke,
Al-Hakim at-Tirmidi, pp. 9Iff.
 1. Hafez, “The Song of Spring,” adapted from Dance o f
Life, pp. 12, 14, 67.
2. On wagt, hdl, and the Sufi concept of the mystical
“now," see also above, ch. 1 (Niche), pp. I8ff.
3. Some of the information contained in the following
passages has been culled from the article “al-KHADIR" in
The Shorter Encyclopaedia of Islam, pp. 232ff., as well as
from Stephanie Dailey (trans.), Myths from Mesopotamia.
, 4. The Koran Interpreted, Sura 18:60-82, pp. 295-8.
5. The Koran Interpreted, Sura 18:64, p. 296.
6. The Koran Interpreted, Sura 18:60-64, pp. 295-6
(emphasis SS).
7. Needless to say that this attempt at identifying Khidr
with Andreas is only one of many. For other renditions, see
The Shorter Encyclopaedia o f Islam, pp. 232ff.
8. How this attribute might link Khidr and Dhu an-Nun, the
famous 9th-century mystic from Egypt, is not clear, but the
similarity is worth noting. It is also interesting to note that the
name of Moses’ page is Joshua bin Nun.
9. Mushkil gushd is a Persian idiom which means “the
remover of obstacles.” It has become one of the attributes of
the Pole (qutb), whose energy, which emanates from Divine
mercy, removes all the obstacles which the sincere seeker
encounters on the path. Each generation is believed to have its
own mushkil gushd. On the term mudtarr, see above, ch. 2
(Effort), pp. 24ff.
10. Kalim Allah, he who spoke with God, is the title of
Moses in Muslim prophetology. This is based on Qur’an
4:162, which echoes the Bible, Numbers 12:8.
11. Rumi, Mathnawi, III, 1962ff., trans. R. A. Nicholson,
pp. 109-10.
12. On this term, see above, ch. 3 (Dreams), p. 56 and n. 16.
13. The Koran Interpreted, Sura 55:26, p. 558.
14. In Arabic the notion of poverty, need, or lack is
designated by the word faqr, from which derives faqir, a
poor man. It is an attribute of the Sufi who lives in total need
of the Beloved. On need and poverty, see also below, ch. 9
(Function).
 15. Traditionally, tawba is the first “station” (maqam ) on
the Sufi path. Sufi manuals offer various definitions for
tawba, which, in the normative sense of the term, means “to
repent of sins.” Thus, for example, Abu al-Husayn an-Nuri
says: "Tawba means to withdraw from all things other than
God” (at-tawba: an tatuba min kulli shay'in siwa allah).
Quoted in as-Sarraj, Kitdb al-luma ‘, p. 68 (trans. SS).
16. Verses SS.
17. One of the many words for “rain" in Arabic is ghawth,
which literally means help, rescue, the one who rescues. From
here derives ghawth as an attribute of the spiritual teacher and
the Pole.
18. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. x. “Die before you die”
is an old Sufi tradition which goes back to the Prophet
Muhammad and can be traced back to even older Jewish
sources. For this hadith in the Sufi tradition, see Schimmel,
Mystical Dimensions of Islam, pp. 70, 135.
19. On the “Cosmic North,” see Henri Corbin, The Man o f
Light in Iranian Sufism, ch. Ill, pp. 39*60 (and see also index).
20. See The Koran Interpreted, Sura 18:65-78, pp. 296-7.
21. See The Koran Interpreted, Sura 18:79-82, pp. 297-8.
22. See also below, ch. 6 (Dhikr), pp. 137f.
23. On the hadith “The breath of the Merciful comes to me
from Yemen,” see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam,
pp. 28-9. For more information on Uways al-Qarani and the
uwaysiyyun, see al-Hujwiri, Kashf al-Mahjub, pp. 83-4. See
also Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, p. 125, See also Corbin,
Creative Imagination in the Sufism of Ibn ‘Arabi, pp. 32-3.
24. Based on Mohammad Ebn-e Mona war, The Secrets o f
God's Mystical Oneness, pp. 93-4.
25. ‘Attar, Muslim Saints and Mystics, Episodes from the
Tadhkirat al-Auliyd’ ( ‘Memorial of the Saints’), p. 244.
26. On at-Tirmidhi’s link with Khidr through the dreams of
his wife, see above, ch. 3 (Dreams), pp. 61-5.
27. ‘Attar, Muslim Saints and Mystics, pp. 244-6.
 1. Quoted in lnayat Khan, The Hand of Poetry, trans.
Coleman Barks, p. 39.
2. Rumi, Discourses, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path of
Love, p. 204.
3. Jeni Couzyn, In the Skin House, p. 53.
4. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 222.
5. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, pp. 180-81.
6. Khalq means both “creation” in general and “human
beings,” “mankind,” in particular.
7. See Plato, Symposium, trans. W. H. D. Rouse, pp. 85-9
(Aristophanes* speech).
8. Al-Futuhat al-makiyya II: 399.28, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 131.
9. Al-Futuhat al-makiyya III: 429.4, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 132.
10. Al-Futuhat al-makiyya 1:459.1, quoted in Chittick, The
Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 131.
11. Al-Futuhdt al-makiyya II: 487.34, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 130.
12. Al-Futuhat al-makiyya II: 437.20, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 131.
13. Al-Futuhdt al-makiyya II: 459.1, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 131.
14. Al-Futuhdt al-makiyya II: 399.28, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 131 (emphasis SS).
15. Al-Futuhdt al-makiyya II: 437.20, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 131.
16. The term umm al-kitdb is based on Qur’an 43:4, which
reads: “...and behold it is in the Essence of the Book, with Us;
sublime indeed, wise"; see The Koran Interpreted, p. 505. See
also The Shorter Encyclopaedia of Islam, p. 601.
17. The esoteric meaning and power of letters are an
unmistakable aspect of Jewish mysticism. See, for instance,
A. Kaplan, trans., Sefer Yez.ira, The Book of Creation. See
also M. Idel, Kabbalah New Perspectives, pp. 97ff. For letter
mysticism in Sufism, see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of
Islam, Appendix 1, pp. 411-25.
18. Al-Hakim at-Tirmidhl, Nawadir al-usiil, p. 212.
 19. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 149.
20. Al-Futuhat al-makiyya II: 459.1, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Knowledge, p. 131.
21. Rumi, Discourses, trans. A. J. Arberry, p. 87. The
Divine Logos articulated in the creative Be! {kun) is based on
several Qur’anic verses, e.g. 2:117, 3:59, 6:73, 40:68.
22. Rumi, Discourses, trans. A. J. Arberry, p. 87.
23. Rumi, Discourses, trans. A. J. Arberry, p. 33.
24. Ibn al-*Arabi, Bezels of Wisdom, trans. R. W. J. Austin,
p. 274, quoted in Austin, “The Sophianic Feminine in the
Work of Ibn ‘Arab! and Rumi," p. 239.
25. Quoted in Austin, “The Sophianic Feminine in the
Work of Ibn ‘Arab! and Rumi,” p. 243.
26. Mahmud Shabistari, The Secret Rose Garden, trans.
Florence Lederer, pp. 34-5.
27. Jeni Couzyn, In the Skin House, p, 44,
28. Rumi, Quatrain 558, quoted in Open Secret, trans. John
Moyne and Coleman Barks, p. 11.
29. Rumi, Quatrain 1300, quoted in Open Secret, trans.
John Moyne and Coleman Barks, p. 19.
30. Rumi, Quatrain 1794, quoted in Open Secret, trans.
John Moyne and Coleman Barks, p. 22.
31. ‘Attar, The Conference o f the Birds, p. 60 (11. 1235-
1258).
32. ‘Attar, The Conference of the Birds, pp. 73-4 (11. 1534-
1576).
33. ‘Attar, The Conference of the Birds, p. 75 (11. 1577-
1595).
34. Hafez, Love's Perfect Gift, p. 63.
35. On this hadith(inna Allaha jamilyuhibbu ‘l-jamdl), see
Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 291.
36. Ancient Jewish traditions (midrash ) tell that when the
women of Egypt, who were chopping vegetables, saw Joseph
walking on the wall of the city, they became so stupefied by
his beauty that they cut their fingers and were oblivious of
pain. This is referred to also in the Qur’an, 12:30-31, in a
somewhat different version. For a Sufi interpretation of the
women’s oblivion, see al-HujwIrt, Kashf aTMahjub, p. 32.
37. Abdulrahman Jami, The Book o f Joseph and Zuleikha,
trans. Alexander Rogers, pp. 35-6.
38. Al-Qushayri, Ar-Risala, (Exhortation to Novices),
p. 184 (trans. SS).
 39. Culled, paraphrased, and collated from the following
works by al-Haklm at-Tirmidhi: A fSaldt wa-maqasiduhd
(On the Purpose of Prayer), pp. 20,94-5, and Kitab ar-riydda
wa-adab an nafs (The Training of the Nafs), pp. 34ff„ 92ff.

Chapter 6, DHIKR, pages 124-144

1. On the inner layers of the heart, see above, ch. 1 (Niche),
pp. 5-8.
2. RumI, Mathnawi, I, 3154, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi
Path of Love, p. 160.
3. Sahl ibn ‘Abdallah at-Tustari was a 9th-century Sufi
teacher close to the Baghdadi circle. On him, see Schimmel,
Mystical Dimensions o f Islam, pp. 55f. See also Gerhard
Bowering, The Mystical Vision of Existence in Classical
Islam.
4. Quoted in Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions o f Islam,
p. 169. For another version, told by ‘Attar, see his Ildhi-nama,
Book o f God, trans, J, A. Boyle, Discourse VI, 8, pp. 105-6.
5. Quoted in A. H. Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality and
Writing of al-Junayd, p. 76.
6. Quoted in as-Sarraj, Kitab al-luma', p. 49 (trans. SS).
7. Al-Kalabadhl, The Doctrine of the Sufis, trans. A. I.
Arberry, pp. 166-7.
8. Michaela Ozelsel, Forty Days, trans. A. Gaus, p. 19.
9. Rumi, Mathnawi, HI, 2072-2076, quoted in Abdul Hakim,
Metaphysics of Rumi, p. 16.
10. On the cosmological concepts of “planes” and “spheres,”
see below, ch. 9 (Function), pp. 196-200.
11. Abu Nasr as-Sarraj, Kitab al-luma', Bab 'dkharfi tafsir
hikdya dhukirat ‘an Abu Yazid (another chapter on the inter­
pretation of an anecdote attributed to Abu Yazid), p. 464
(trans. SS).
12. As-Sarraj, Kitab al-luma', (another chapter on the
interpretation of an anecdote attributed to Abu Yazid), p. 466:
inna -l-iltifat wal-ishtighal bU-muldha^a ila -l-kawn wal-
mamlaka khud‘a ‘ inda wujudhaqd’iq at-tafrid wa-tajridat-
tawhid (trans. SS).
13. As-Sarraj, Kitab al-luma‘, (another chapter on the
interpretation of an anecdote attributed to Abu Yazid), p. 467:
...1inda ahl an-nihdya ... al-iltifdt ila ayyi shay'in siwa -llah
khud'a (trans SS).
14. As-Sarraj, X7idfcal-luma\ Babftwasfsama‘al-muridin
wal-mubtadV in (chapter describing the listening of novices),
p. 358 (trans. SS).
15. Rumi.Djwdrt, 1647, quoted inChittick, The Sufi Path of
Love, p. 327.
16. On this aspect of the nafs, see above, ch. 2 (Effort),
p. 29.
17. On other rules laid down by the Naqshbandi masters, see
below, ch. 8 (Etiquette), pp. 169-73.
18. As-Sulami, Risalat al-maldmatiyya, p. 104.
19. See Hasan Shushud, Masters o f Wisdom o f Central
Asia, p, 26.
20. On this aspect of Khidr*s work, see above, ch. 4 (Khidr),
pp. 98-101. For more information on the Naqshbandi dhikr,
see J. G, J. ter Haar, “The Naqshbandi Tradition in the Eyes
of Ahmad Sirhindi,” in Gaborieaux, Popovic, and Zarcone
(eds.), Naqshbandis, pp. 83-92.
21. “Ud'u rabbakum tadarru‘an wa-khufyatan. ”
22. This anecdote is told with more detail in Al-Anwar al-
qudsiyyafi manaqib as-sdda an-Naqshbandiyya (The Sacred
Lights in Praise of the Naqshbandi Masters), pp. 111-12.
23. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 821.
24. Quoted in Hasan Shushud, Masters of Wisdom of Cen­
tral Asia, p. 38.
25. On tawajjuh, see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions o f
Islam, pp. 237, 366. See also M. Chodkiewicz, “Quelques
aspects des techniques spirituelles dans la tariqa
Naqshbandiyya,” in Naqshbandis, pp. 70ff.; and J. G. J. ter Haar,
“The Naqshbandi Tradition,” in Naqshbandis, pp. 86ff.
26. Ar-Rakhawi, ed., al-Anwar al-qudsiyya ft manaqib as-
sdda an-Naqshbandiyya (The Sacred Lights in Praise of the
Naqshbandi Masters), p. 6.
27. Al-Anwar al-qudsiyya f i manaqib as-sdda an-
Naqshbandiyya, p. 114.
28. Al-Anwdr al-qudsiyya ft manaqib as-sdda an-
Naqshbandiyya, p. 131.
29. For this hadith qudsi, see Schimmel, Mystical Dimen­
sions of Islam, p. 168.
 1. Quoted in Inayat Khan, The Hand of Poetry, trans.
Coleman Barks, p. 20.
2. ‘Attar, The Conference of the Birds, p. 191.
3. On Abu Yazid and his ecstatic shatahat, see above, ch. 1
(Niche), p. 20.
4. As-Sarraj, Kitdb al-luma', p. 57 (trans. SS). In al-
Qushayri, Ar-Risala, p. 142, this statement is attributed to
al-Junayd; see Principles o f Sufism, trans. B. R. von
Schlegell, p. 322.
5. An extraordinary phenomenon of a total loss of the
ability to see colors is described by the neurologist Oliver
Sacks; see ‘The Case of the Colorblind Painter” in An Anthro­
pologist on Mars, pp. 3-41.
6. Jacques Lusseyran. And There Was Light, pp. 10-13.
7. See also above, ch. 1 (Niche), p. 18.
8. On the importance and function of imagination as the
bridge (barzakh ) between the two worlds in which the mystic
lives, see above, ch. 3 (Dreams), pp. 55-7.
9. See Corbin, The Man of Light in Iranian Sufism, p. 78.
Corbin, the French scholar and philosopher, developed his
influential theory of the “imaginal,” the mundus imaginalis.
This, as has been discussed above (ch. 3), is the realm from
which dream-images and visions emanate, a realm in which
these images and visions have a concrete reality and are not
merely the so-called figments of fantasy. Corbin’s theory is
based on his in-depth study of the teachings on imagination of
Kubra, Ibn al-‘Arabi, and other medieval mystics and phi­
losophers. On the mundus imaginalis, see also Corbin,
“Mundus Imaginalis or the Imaginary and the Imaginal,” in
Spring (1972), pp. 1-19.
10. Quoted in Corbin, The Man of Light in Iranian Sufism,
pp. 77-8 (emphasis HC).
11. Quoted in Corbin, The Man of Light in Iranian Sufism,
p. 78.
12. Quoted in Corbin, The Man o f Light in Iranian Sufism,
pp. 79-80.
13. Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah, The Book of Wisdom, trans. V. Danner,
p. 85.
14. Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah, The Book of Wisdom, p. 68.
15. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 187.
 16. Quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path o f Knowledge, p. 376.
17. Al-Kalabadhi, The Doctrine of the Sufis, trans. A. J.
Arberry, pp. 126-7.
18. The Conference of the Birds, p. 166.
19. The Conference of the Birds, p. 205.
20. The Conference of the Birds, p. 212.
21. The Conference of the Birds, p. 213.
22. The Conference of the Birds, p. 220.
23. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p, 729,
24. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 631. On the state ofjam *,
see above, ch. 1 (Niche), and note in particular the quote from
al-Qushayri on p. 2 (n. 3).
25. On Moses’ meeting with Khidr, see above, ch. 4 (Khidr),
pp. 95-7.
26. Quoted in Corbin, The Man of Light in Iranian Sufism,
p. 112.
27. This conventional interpolation means that, while the
author offers his commentary, he humbly makes the reserva­
tion that only God knows the truth.
28. As-Sarraj, Kitdb al-luma‘, p. 57 (trans. SS).
29. Al-Anwar al-qudsiyya f i mandqib as-sada an-
Naqshbandiyya, p. 131. See also Hasan Shushud, Masters
of Wisdom o f Central Asia, p. 44. See also above, ch. 6
(Dhikr), p. 142.

Chapter 8, SUFI ETHICS AND ETIQUETTE,

pages 164-186
1. Colin Thubron, The Lost Heart of Asia, p. 105.
2. As-Sulami, The Way of Sufi Chivalry, p. 37.
3. Books on adab available in English for further reference
are: al-Ghazzali, On the Duties of Brotherhood, trans. M.
Holland; al-Hujwiri, Kashfal-Mahjub, trans. R. A. Nicholson,
ch. XXIII, pp. 334-66; al-Qushayri, Principles of Sufism,
trans. B. R. von Schlegell, ch. 40, pp. 308-15; as-Suhrawardi,
Abu Najib, A Sufi Rule for Novices, trans. M. Milson; as-
Suhrawardi, ‘Umaribn Muhammad, The ‘A warif al-ma ‘arif
trans. W. Clarke, esp. pp. 30-48; as-Sulami, The Way of Sufi
Chivalry, trans. Tosun Bayrak al-Jerrahi.
4. This saying is attributed by al-Qushayri to al-Kattani;
see Ar-Risdla, (Chapter on Sufism), p. 127. Note also the
following saying recorded by al-Qushayri: “Sufism consists
of noble characteristics shown at a noble time by a noble man
among noble people,” quoted in Principles of Sufism, p, 303.
5. Al-Hujwiri, Kashf al-Mahjiib, p. 39.
6. Al-Hujw!ri, Kashf al-Mahjub, p. 39.
7. In the Arabic text the word for “man,” ‘abd, literally
means “slave.”
8. Quoted in as-Sarraj, Kitdb al-luma', p. 80 (trans. SS).
9. RumI, Diwan, 1331, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path of
Love, pp. 218-19.
10. As-SulamI, The Way of Sufi Chivalry, pp. 40-41.
11. Al-Qushayri, Ar-Risala, (Chapter on Sufism), p. 127.
12. As-Sulami, The Way of Sufi Chivalry, p. 42.
13. Quoted in Nicholson, Studies in Islamic Mysticism,
p. 46.
14. Al-Kalabadhi, The Doctrine of the Sufis, p. 11.
15. As-Sulami, Risalat al-maldmatiyya, p. 90 (trans. SS).
16. Quoted in al-Qushayri, Ar-Risala, (Chapter on Sufism),
p. 128.
17. As-Sulami, The Way of Sufi Chivalry, p. 42.
18. For the hadith “Qualify yourself with the qualities of
God,” see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 142.
19. Sunni sharp a is the religious law and practice of
Orthodox (Sunni) Islam. It was formulated in four main legal
schools during the 8th century.
20. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 9.
21. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 20.
22. Quoted in al-Qushayri, Ar-Risala, (Chapter on Sufism),
p. 127.
23. RumI, Discourses, trans. A. J. Arberry, p. 18.
24. As-Suhrawardi, Abu Najib, trans. M. Milson, A Sufi
Rule for Novices, pp. 35-6.
25. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 220.
26. “The ‘people of the portico,’ a group of pious compan­
ions of the Prophet, were considered by the Sufis as the ideal
prototype of Islamic piety.” (This is the original footnote in
M. Milson (trans.), A Sufi Rule for Novices, p. 36, n. 24.)
27. As-Suhrawardi, A Sufi Rule for Novices, pp. 35-6.
28. On the “existential” aspect of the Sufi tradition, see also
above, ch. 1 (Niche), pp. 16-18.
29. Al-Ghazzali, The Alchemy of Happiness, trans. C. Field
and E. L. Daniel, pp. 5-6.
 30. Al-Hujwiri, Kashf al-Mahjub, p. 39.
31. J .G. Bennett, The Masters o f Wisdom, p. 102. Fuller
summations of the Naqshbandi rules can be found in the
following studies: J. G. Bennett, The Masters of Wisdom, pp,
102-4; A. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions o f Islam, pp,
364f.; J. S. Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam, pp. 202-4.
32. Saint Augustine, Confessions, p. 195.
33. Saint Augustine, Confessions, pp. 200-1.
34. On hushdar dam, see also above, ch. 6 (Dhikr), pp. 135,
137, 142.
35. As-Sulami, Nasim aTarwdh (The Breath o f Souls),
p. 163 (trans. SS).
36. Hospitality has always been of the utmost importance in
the East: “Invite guests, offer feasts, and be hospitable,”
writes as-Sulami. See his The Way of Sufi Chivalry, p. 40.
37. See as-Sulami, Risalat al-malamatiyya, pp. 91-2 (trans,
SS).
38. Tweedie, Daughter of Fire, p. 261.

Chapter 9, “IT IS THE FUNCTION WHICH CREATES THE

ORGAN,” pages 187-219
1. Quoted in al-Qushayri, Ar-Risdla, (chapter on Poverty),
p. 123.
2. As-Suhrawardi, Shihab ad-DIn, Risalat al-abraj (The
Epistle of the Towers), quoted in Henri Corbin, Avicenna and
The Visionary Recital, p. 19.
3. Al-Ghazzali, Ihya“ulum ad-Din, vol. Ill, book I, p. 4
(trans. SS).
4. This is based on a prophetic hadith, “God created Adam
in His image,” which in itself is based on Genesis 1:26-27.
On this hadith, see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions o f
Islam, p. 188.
5. On the central hadith “He who knows himself knows his
*

Lord” (man ‘arafa nafsahufaqad *arafa rabbahu), see above,

ch. 2 (Effort), p. 26.
6. Rumi, Discourses, trans. A. J. Arberry, p. 48.
7. In this context, note the interesting observations made by
Michaela Ozelsel in her Forty Days, pp. 110-12.
8. Kubra, Najm ad-DIn, Fawd’ih al-jamal, p. 5 (Arabic
text, para. 12; trans. SS). The “mountains” are the four
elements of which everything in the material world, including
the human body, is composed.
9. Kubra, Fawd'ih al-jamal, p. 18 (Arabic text, para. 41;
trans.'SS).
10. Metaphysics o f Riimi by Khalifa Abdul Hakim was
originally submitted as a doctoral thesis at Heidelberg Uni­
versity; it was then published in Lahore in 1933 by The Ripon
Printing Press.
11. Abdul Hakim, Metaphysics o f Riimi, p. 25. The Qur’anic
verses quoted are 57:3 and 2:156 respectively.
12. Abdul Hakim, Metaphysics o f Riimi, pp. 31-2.
13. On this hadithqudsi, see also above, ch. 5 (Eros), p. 108.
14. Abdul Hakim, Metaphysics of Riimi, p. 32, n. 1. See also
Nicholson’s translation of Mathnawi, II, 3274-3280: “ ...
without need ... God does not give anything to any one....
Need, then, is the noose for (all) things that exist: Man has
instruments in proportion to his need. Therefore quickly
augment thy need, O needy one, in order that the Sea of
Bounty may surge up in lovingkindness.”
15. Sura 17:85.
16. On the mystery of the spirit within the heart, see also
above, ch. 6 (Dhikr), pp. 135f.
17. Abdul Hakim, Metaphysics of Riimi, p. 12.
18. See Qur’an 2:117, 3:59, 6:73, 16:40, 19:35, 40:68.
19. See Qur’an 38:75. On the creation of man “by God’s
Hands,” see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions o f Islam, p. 188.
20. Mathnawi, VI, 2877, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path
of Love, p. 27.
21. Abdul Hakim, Metaphysics of Riimi, p. 25.
22. Mathnawi, I, 1-11, trans. R. A. Nicholson, p. 5.
23. Abdul Hakim, Metaphysics of Riimi, p. 25.
24. Verses SS.
25. Rumi, Mathnawi, I, 3489, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi
Path of Love, p. 38.
26. Rumi, Mathnawi, III, 1222-1225, trans. R. A. Nicholson,
p. 69.
27. Abdul Hakim, Metaphysics of Rumi, p. 28.
28. Abdul Hakim, Metaphysics of Riimi, p. 34.
29. Abdul Hakim, Metaphysics of Riimi, p. 35.
30. Quoted in Look! This is Love, trans. A. Schimmel, p. 17,
31. Rumi, Discourses, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path of
Love, p. 207.
32. Rumi, Mathnawi, II, 3279-3280, quoted in Chittick, The
Sufi Path o f Love, p. 207.
33. Rumi, Mathnawi, III, 3211-3212, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Love, p. 207.
34. A saying from one of the Upanishads, quoted in Tweedie,
Daughter of Fire, p. x.
35. Rumi, Mathnawi, III, 4440, quoted in Coleman Barks
(versions). Feeling the Shoulder of the Lion, p. 61.
36. Rumi, Discourses, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path o f
Love, p. 211.
37. Rumi, Mathnawi, I, 2744, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi
Path o f Love, p. 208.
38. Rumi, Mathnawi, V, 2838, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi
Path of Love, p. 208.
39. Rumi, Mathnawi, VI, 4303-4304, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Love, p. 208.
40. Rumi, Mathnawi, II, 1939-1940, quoted in Chittick, The
Sufi Path of Love, p. 208.
41. Rumi, Diwdn, 1400, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path of
Love, p. 209.
42. Abdul Hakim, The Metaphysics of Rumi, p. 40.
43. On this hadith, see above, ch. 4 (Khidr), p. 88.
44. Quoted in Nicholson, The Mystics of Islam, p. 168.
45. Quoted in Look! This is Love, trans. A. Schimmel,
pp. 76-7.
46. On Rumi’s meeting with Shams, which is told and re­
told in many versions, see, e.g., Schimmel, The Triumphal
Sun, pp. xvi-xvii; see also Schimmel, / am Wind You are Fire.
47. Rumi, Mathnawi, III, 4400-4420, quoted in Coleman
Barks, Feeling the Shoulder of the Lion, pp. 58-60.
48. Rumi, Diwdn, 22561, quoted in Chittick, The Sufi Path
of Love, p. 78.
49. Rumi, Mathnawi, VI, 126-128, quoted in Chittick, The
Sufi Path o f Love, p. 78.
50. See also above, ch. 5 (Eros), pp. 104ff.
51. Rumi, Mathnawi, III, 4393-4399, quoted in Chittick,
The Sufi Path of Love, p. 209.
52. G. I. Gurdjieff, Meetings With Remarkable Men, pp.
245-6.
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* *

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 The Index

A almond, parts of as analogy

‘abd (servant), 10, 30 to the heart, 6
abddl, al- (successors), 73 altruism (ithdr), 169
Abdul Hakim, Khalifa, 191- Andalusia(n), 11, 47, 154
194,205 Andreas, 82, 85
abide(s) (fa-yabqd), 86 angel(s), angelic, 56, 59, 66,
absence, mystical, 57, 155 122, 135,199
acts (af 'al), 27 anima, 118
adab (etiquette, Sufi), 164- annihilation, 57, 86,127,
165 155, 156,181; black
Adam, 140, 199 light of, 160
Adler, Gerhard, 48 Antaki, ‘Abdallah Ibn ‘Asim
af ‘al (acts), 27 al-, 77
aggregating, bringing appetites (shahawdt), 26
together (jam ‘), 2 archetype, archetypal, 54,
Ahrar, Khwaja 'Ubaidallah, 140
136, 142 arena, 16, 33
ahwdl (states), 10 ascent (mi‘raj) of the
‘A’isha, 59 Prophet, 130
alam-e pir (an old world), 78 aspirant (murid), 41
Alchemy of Happiness, The, aspiration, Sufi path, 179
177 assimilat(e)(ion), of the
Alexander the Great, 82, 85, lower in the higher, 198,
86 205; assimilate qualities
‘All (ibn Abi Talib, son-in- of God (al-takhalluq bi-
law of Muhammad, akhlaq alldh), 171;
fourth caliph), 40 assimilate qualities of
Alldh, dhikr of, 125-126, 142; the teacher, 171,172
proximity of, 12 ‘Attar, Farid ud-Din, 8, 9,19,
Allah, Ibn ‘Ata, 153, 167 100,101,116-119, 145,
All-merciful, 109 155,159
Alone, “from the alone to the attitude, inner, 103; negative
Alone”, 25 attitude (sit’ a^-zann),
A loneness (wahddniyyatihi), 166
as Quality of God, 130 attracted (majdhubun), 184
attraction (jadhb), 184,215; Beloved, Divine, 3, 11, 40,
to an evolved soul, 190 87, 104, 132, 168, 186,
Augustine, Saint, 180-181 210,213,214,215
awareness in breathing (hush Bennett, J. G., 179
dardam), 179 bewilderment, bewildered,
autobiography, of at- 33
Tirmidhl, 61, 62 beyond,183
awe, of the Divine, (hayba), Bezels of Wisdom (Fusus al-
64,95, 135 hikam), 58
awliyd' (Friends of God), 40, Bhai Sahib, 17, 36-37, 39n,
61, 64, 72 94, 96, 103,104, 138,
Ayaz, slave of Mahmud, 8 154, 157-158, 167-168,
‘ayn al-jam' (essence of 172-173, 175, 177, 186,
union), 20,42,44 191-192
bild kayfd (without how), 19
bird, green , 70, 71
B Bistami, Abu Yazid al-, 20,
Baghdad(i), 20,41, 127, 128, 23,130-131,145, 161,
173 183
bald’ (suffering, acceptance, bitterness, negative attitude,
“yes”), 39,126 166
Balkh, 16 blemish, of the levels of
baqa’ (permanence, subsis­ dhikr, 134,136
tence), 79, 84, 86, 92 body, physical, 114
barzakh (isthmus), 55 bond of love, 186
Be! (Kurt!), 113, 199 book(s), of Creation, 109;
beardless, 119 Mother of Books, 109
beauty, Divine (jamdl), 114, Book of Scintillating Lights,
120; Yusuf as manifes­ The, 130-132, 145
tation of, 120 branded, imprinted, 184
beggars, 209 broom, 40
beginning, dawn of existence branches, green, 70
(at-ma ‘ad ild-l-mabda'), breath(e) (s) (ing), 64;
Ml absolute moment in,
Beginning of the Matter, The 180; awareness in
(Buduww sha'n), 62 breathing (hush dar
being, existence, 18, 20,43, dam), 180, 181; founda­
138, 205; as nature of tion of the Naqshbandi
God, 126,155, 187,197 path, 180; of the All-
 merciful, 107,109,112; opposites are united),
merging into the One 58, 85, 113
with the, 1SO; remem­ Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 46
bering God with the, color(s), 145; of water, 145,
141; secret of the, ISO- 146, 162; green, 151,
181 152; fire, 151; blue, 151;
bud, 102 yellow, 151; black, 160;
Buduww sha ‘n (The Begin­ states as colors, 148
ning of the Matter), 62 compassion (rahma), 33
Bukhara, 136 complete human being or
Bursevi, Ismail Hakki, 1 man (al-insan al-kdmil),
business, God’s (amr), 135 186; Shams of Tabriz
as, 212
Conference of the Birds, The,
C 8, 116, 117-119, 155,
Canaan, land of, 49 157, 159
canopy, 64 Confessions (of St. August­
Caspian Sea, 11 ine), 180-181
center, of the Heart, 8 confused, confusion, 36,176
certitude (ayqantu, yaqin), consummation, of desire, 121
64,66 constraint, constrained
chain (silsila), 50; of love, (idtirar, mudforr), 24,
192 26, 29, 30, 31, 33, 38,
change(s), on the Sufi path, 42, 83
172 constriction (diq), 107
character, of the Sufi, of the contentment (rida), 167
wali, 168 contraction (qabd), 153,154
chest (sadr), 7, 74, 112 convergence (jam ‘), 20
chilla (retreat), 31 Corbin, Henri, 150
chivalry (futuwwa), Sufi, 169 Couzyn, Jeni, 102n, 115n
Christianity, Christian(s), Creation, 46, 104,108; Book
111, 117,196,202 of, 109; creative
circle(s), circular (halqa), 22, principle, 107; creative
74, 89, 125, 127, 131, energy of God, 112;
164; vicious circle, 29 raison d’ etre, 193
circumambulation, 11 crossing over, mediating
clouds, 43 Cdbir), 57, 59
coincidentia oppositorum
(that in which the
D Dhu’ 1-Faqar (sword of ‘All),
Damascus, 11 40
dance, dancing, 132, 143, dialogue, 104
173 Difference Between the
Daqqaq, Abu ‘Ali ad*, 27, Chest, the Heart, the
169*179 Inner Heart, and the
darkness, 94, 145, 200 Kernel of the Heart,
Daughter of Fire, 17, 36-37, The, 5
39n, 94, 96, 104,154, differentiation, multiplicity,
157-158, 173, 175, 186 110
Day of Creation, 199 disciple (shishya), 39, 97,
Day of the Covenant (yawm 170
al-mithaq), 126, 128 Discourses (of Rumi), 174
death, 94; die before you die, disturbance(s), 174
210; preparation for Divine, secrets, 14; Compas­
death (al-isti 'dad HI- sion, 34, 35; Help, 34;
mawt), 217 Joy, 143, Majesty, 35,
deception (khud‘ a), 130-131 Power, 35
descent, descend, 94; soul’s dispersion, 2
descent, 200,201 Diwdn, Rumi, 132
desire, love ( 'ishq), 112,114, dream(s), in confusion
122, 205 (adghath al-ahldm), 46;
despair, 34 interpreting of, 54,57,
destiny, secret, 184 58; teaching dream, 65;
devious(ness) (makr), 35, 39 true, veridical (ar-ru1yd
dhawq (taste), 17, 18, 23 as-saliha), 46, 59; of the
dhikr, 92, 124, 125, 126, 128, faithful, 61; God
129,131-138; connec­ communicating through,
tion with the breath, 61; of at-Tirmidhi, 63-
141; of contemplation 64; of at-Tirmidhi’s
(mushdhada), 135; wife, 65-67, 69-71, 72;
impure, 144; pure, 144; as heralds of destiny,
silent, hidden contem­ 76; the function of, 76
plation’of the heart drown(ing), 137
(dhikr khafiy). 137, 139- drunkenness, drunk(ard), 19,
143,184; from the 116, 122,172
realm of joy, 143 dust, 40
Dhu an-Nun (“he who
possesses the fish”), 83
E creation, 107
East, neither of the East nor exile, 45, 200
of the West, 12 existence, existent (wujud),
ecstasy (wajd), 18 58,60,79, 127, 161,
ecstatic moment, 19 193
effort (mujahada, jihad), 27 eye, of the heart, 6; human
ego (nafs), 38, 86, 181; ego’s eye, 50; spiritual eye,
identification with 203
spiritual experiences, 29
embody (tajassud), 57
encounter (musadafa), 19 F
endurance, (sabr), station of, fadl (grace), 42
166 famine, 49
enemy, enemies, man’s worst fand ’ (annihilation), 84, 86,
of all, 24 92,127, 155
envy, negative attitude, 166 faqir, at- (the poor [of
epistle, 122 heart]), 16
Ernst, Carl, 20n featureless(ness) (mahw as-
Eros, 89, 105, 111 sifa), 143, 163
esoteric teaching, 100, 139, find (yajiduna), 18, 19
140 fire, 40
essence (‘ayn al-jam'), 20; fish, 81,82, 83, 101
God’s essence, 60, 108, flame, 15
139, 140, 141; inner fluctuation, 11, 42, 149
essence, 22; essence of foretaste, 46
ethics, 185 forgetfulness, 124
eternity, eternal (azaliyya), form-giving faculty (al-
130 quwwat al-musawwira),
ethics, of Sufism, 175 55
evolution, evolved, human Forty Days, 20-21
beings, 72; price of forty-day solitude (chilla,
evolution, 211; process khalwa), 31
of, 198, 201,210; freedom (hurriyya), 9, 31; of
spiritual evolution, 190, choice, 39
192, 196, 210 Friend(s), God as the Friend,
expansion (bast), 153-154, 20, 50, 118, 119,182,
205 219; Friends of God
exhalation, breathing-out (awliyd’), 40, 43, 56, 61,
(nafas), 107; as Divine 64; miracle of, 172
fu 'ad. (inner heart), 7 H
fullness (sa‘ ada), 187 habb (seed), 8
futuwwa (chivalry), 169 Haddad, Abu Hafs al-, 187
hadith, 9, 24, 26, 30, 39,43,
56, 59, 63, 99, 120, 122-
G 123, 171, 188; hadith
Gabriel, 59 qudsi 21-22, 43-44, 108,
gallows, 20 144, 193
generosity of the Sufi, 168, Hafez, Muhammad
170 Shamsuddin, 78, 79, 120
ghayb, al- (invisible), 18,19, Hal, pi. ahwal (mystical
22, 25 state), 18, 80
Ghazzali, Abu Hamid Hallaj, Husayn ibn Mansur
Muhammad, 188 al-, 20,41,42,44-45,
Ghujduwani, *Abd al-Khaliq 167
al-, 136-139,141-142 Haqq, al- (the Divine Truth),
Gilgamesh, 80, 81, 86, 88 19, 60, 127; and at-
glory, Divine, 5 haqq, 20; Haqiqa, 181
gnosis, 187 Hamadhani, Yusuf al-, 136
goblet of love, 11 healing, myrtle as a symbol
good nature, character of the of, 68
Sufi, 165, 168 Heart (qatb), 2, 4, 7, 9, 10,
good tidings (bushra), 61 13, 22, 38,45,74,75,
grace (fadl, lutf), 41, 42, 92, 120, 125; anxiety of, 40;
95, 135, 168 being and the, 188; as
Gracious, the (al-latif), one center, 8; door of the,
of the names of God, 75 16; eyes and ears of the,
grapes, 65, 70-71 209; grooves upon the,
gratitude (shukr), 167, 170 124; kernel (tubb) of
Green Man, the (Khidr, al- the, 7; of the just, 66;
Khadir), 77, 79, 83, 89, inner (fu’ad), 7, 162;
90 “the heart is He,” 202;
groove, upon the heart, 124 linings, layers of the, 6-
guide, spiritual, 65 7,44, 125, 131, 134;
Gurdjieff, G. I., 217 memory of the, 127;
Guru Maharaj, Sufi teacher mirror of the, 16; only
of Bhai Sahib, 172, 173 the heart matters, 164;
polishing of the, 125,
170-171; remembrance
 of the, 124, 125,144;
poor of, 187; soft and Iblis (Satan), 4
warm, 171; of the Sufi, Ibn al-‘Arabi, Muhyiddin,
171; turning of the, 87; Muhammad, 3,11, 23,
subtle, 187, 188. 202 47, 55-60, 105-109,
heaven, light in, 15 113-114,154
heedless(ness) (ghafla), 14, idtirar (constraint), 31,38,
38, 142 42
hermaphrodite, original image(s), 57; of God, 188
being, 105 imagination, imaginal, 46,
hiddenness, 19, 21,142; as 55, 57, 58, 59, 60;
Divine quality, 199 imaginal world (Mundus
hierarchy, hierarchical, 68, Imaginalis), 57,150,
72; of being, 201 151
hint(s). Divine, 176, 182 immortality, 80, 82, 83
home, of origin, 12, 127, impotence, 112
200,210 imprint, impression (naqsh),
hoopoe, 8 139, 185; subsistence of
horizons, widening of, 41 the, 139
horse, man riding upon a red inflation, conceit {'ujb), 28,
horse, 68 133
house, as analogy for the infuse(d), on the spiritual
heart, 6; “Holy House,” path, 175
“Inhabited House,” 73 Inhabited House, Holy
how, “without how” (bild House, 72-73
kayfa), 19; howness Inner Pilgrimage to the
(kayfiyya), 130 Essence of the Heart,
Hujwiri, ‘All ibn ‘Uthman al- The, 11
Jullabi al-, 26,27,165, interpretation (ta ‘bir), 58; as
179 crossing over, 58, 59
hunger, 120 intimacy, intimate, 50, 95,
hush dar dam (awareness in 199
breathing), 181 intoxicated, intoxication, 22,
husn az-zann (positive 66,123, 155
attitude), 167 invisible (al-ghayb), 18,45,
hurriyya (freedom), 9, 31 164; invisible fire, 13
irada (novicehood), 41
‘ishq (love-desire, passionate
love), 111, 114, 121
Islamic religious law khalwa (solitary Sufi retreat),
(shari‘a), influence in 21, 31, 128-129
Sufism, 172 Khayr, Abu Sa'id ibn Abi al-,
isthmus, 55 99, 169
Khidr, the “Green Man" (al-
khadir), 65, 71, 77, 79,
J 80, 81,83, 85,88-101,
jam' (aggregating, oneness), 137, 141, 156,160, 214
2,11,20, 56 Khurasan(i), 99, 133
Jami, ‘Abdulrahman, 102, Khwajagan, the Masters of
121, 180 Central Asia, 137,177;
Jesus (Isa), 72 Masters of Wisdom,
Jerusalem, 66 177; Naqshbandi path,
jihad (effort, battle), 27 177; rules of, 183
Jilani, *Abd al-Qadir al-, 11, kingdom, 131; of God, 5,
14, 22 144, 183
Joseph, 49, 50, 58 knowledge, knower (al-
Joshua bin Nun, 87 ‘drif), 175, 181; Divine
journey, inner, 153 knowledge (al- 'ilm al-
Judaism, Jewish, 111, 128, laduni), 80, 83; inner
171,196, 202 mystical knowledge
Junayd, Abu’l-Qasim al- (ma‘rifa), 64, 127, 143,
Muhammad al-, 18, 44, 145
127’ 128, 130, 132, 173 koan, 146
Jung, C. G„ 48 Konya, 194
just, the (al-siddiqun), hearts Kubra, Najm ad-Din, 15-16,
of, 66, 68 150, 190
justifying the actions of Kulal, Amir, 138
others, 169
L
K La ildha ilia ‘llahf (There is
Ka‘ba, 22, 62 no god but God!), 71, 74
Kanpur, 17, 108 lamp, 40; heart as, 4,7,12,
Kashf al-Mahjub, 26,179 13, 14; of mystics, 38
Kashghari, Mawlana Saad Idtifa, centers of subtle enery,
ad-din, 180 soul, 198
kernel (lubb), of the heart, 7, law, God’s, 39
153 Lear, King, 77
libido. 106 (kish-i mehr). 111, 195,
license (ijdza) to teach, 172 202; transcendent, 118;
light(s), 15,48, 112; black unrequited, 117
light, 160-161; Divine lover(s), 11, 104, 106, 167,
light, 5, 12, 13; in a 171,182, 202,213,215
human eye, 50; golden- lowliness, 168
green light, 91, 92; lubb (essence, marrow), 8
subtle organ of light (al- luminosity, luminosities,
Idtifa an-nuraniyya), luminous, 48, 205; as
190; of Unity, 7; Verse energy, soul, 199
of Light, 12, 13, 14, 15 Lusseyran, Jacques, 147-148
lightening(-shaft), 14; of lutf (grace), 42
love, 215
lineage, spiritual (silsila), 98;
Naqshbandi lineage,
M
136-137
lion, 50 Mahmud, King, 8
Lives of Muslim Saints and Majesty, Divine, 5
Mystics, 100 makr (ruse), 35
Logos, 111; of the uncon­ Maldmatiyya, al- (The Path
scious, 48 of Blame), 28, 133-136,
Lord, 64, 199; face of the, 142, 143, 169
86; “He who knows Maldmatiyya Epistle, The
himself knows his (Risalat aL
Lord,” 30; “I saw my maldmatiyya), 134-135
Lord in the form of...,” man (rajul), 188; complete
56; Am I not your Lord man (al-insan al-kiimil),
(alastu bi-rabbikum), 122
126; as He who shifts manhood (rujuliyya), 119,
the states, 146; Lordship 189
(rububiyya), 126, 128, Man of Light in Iranian
189 Sufism, 150
love, 102, 103, 104, 106, mantra (dhikr), 124
113, 120-121, 138,206; maqdmat (stages), 10, 27
as Divine quality, 104, maqsiira, section reserved for
199; manifestations of, dignitaries in a mosque,
205; as need, 206; 63
power of, 210; as relief, marriage, on the mystical
106; Religion of love path, 62; “between the
two of you,” 67
masters), of the Friends of moon, 50,197; crescent, 45;
God, 73; of Wisdom, sublunar, 196
177,179 Moses, 80, 81-88, 95, 97,
Masters of Wisdom, 179 158
Mathnawi, 49, 84-85, 200- mountains, 43
201 mouth of the rivers (ina pi
meanings, as realities, 54 narati), 80
Mecca, 7 mudtarr (constrained), 24,
mediating, crossing-over, 57 30,38, 83
Medina, 99 Muhammad, 72, 98, 99, 118,
meditation (murdqaba), 42, 130, 169,172
54,125, 129; silent Muhammad, Ruwaym Abu,
meditation of the heart, 128
138 mujdhada (effort), 27
Meetings with Remarkable multi-layered or -structured,
Men, 217-218 5,6 *
memory, in the heart, 127, murdd (the one who is
187 aspired after), 42
mercy (rahma), 23, 84, 107, murid (aspirant), 41
108,109 Murta' ish, Abu Muhammad,
Merton, Thomas, 46 179
Mesopotamia, 80 musadafa (encounter), 19
Messenger of God, mushahada (vision), 27
Muhammad, 62,74 mushkil gushd (remover of
messengers), 67; dreams as, obstacles), 83, 89
65; messenger-law-giver mysteries, Divine, 1, 20
(rasul), 95 myrtle, branches, 66,67;
Metaphysics of Rumi, The, trees, 68
191, 192, 193, 194 Mysterium, 19, 21, 22, 25;
milk, 59, 208 Mysterium
mind, intellect (at- ‘aql), 198 Coniunctionis, 113
mirror, looking-glass, of the mystic(s) (al- ‘drif), 127, 145,
heart, 5, 14, 19, 20, 56, 155,183
125, 170, 186
mishkdt (niche), 13
moment (waqt), 18,19; N
absolute moment, 180; nafs (self, psyche), 3, 7, 10,
Sufi as the child of the, 20, 25, 27, 29, 33, 86,
16; requirements of the,
87, 88,127,133,167;
177
 bond with the, 31; an- O
nafs al-ammara bi-s-su observer, 140
42; an-nafs aUmufma ’ obstacle on the spiritual path,
inna, 42 39
najwa (intimate discourse), 2 oil, almond, 7; olive, 13
Names of God, 73 Old World ( ‘alam-e pir), 78
naqsh, imprint, 139-141,185 oneness (jam \ tamkin), 11,
Naqshband, Baha’ ad-Din, 3, 42,44,130, 153; the
137, 138,139, 141-142, One, 45,196
163, 164, 177, 180 one-pointed (orientation,
Naqshband(is), Naqshbandi focus), 182
path, 98,121,134,136- opposites, 39, 56,104,154,
137, 139,140, 142, 143, 174, 184; attraction
163, 164,172, 177, 179 between, 105; God and
nearness, 42, 27, 123,127 creation as, 105
need, desire, 193, 206, 208, origin (asl) of soul, 200
211 Oxus River, 3, 61, 101
niche (mishkdt), 4, 13 Ozelsel, Michaela, 20, 21,
Nicholson, R. A., 166 31-32
Night Journey, Ascent
(mi'raj) of the Prophet,
130
P
Nishapur, 2, 10,122;
Nishapuri “Path of path (tariqa), 98, 128, 148,
Blame,” 28, 133-134, 164, 173, 174, 179,184-
142 185, 188, 215; Path of
nomination, nominated, 70 Blame, 28, 133-136,
nonexistence, 107,108, 124, 169; of effort, 42;
127; nothingness, 135, foundation of the
156,157, 159, 161, 198 Naqshbandi path, 142;
north, the mystical direction, Path of the Masters, 139
94, 95 peg(s) (awtad), 72
novicehood (irdda), 41; pen (qalam), 109
novice (murid), 41, 132, People of Assistance (ahl al-
175, 186 'inaya), 58
now, timeless moment fwaqt, People of the South, 171
hdl), 80 perish(ing) (fanin), 86
N’s poems, 24-25, 28, 35-36 permanence, subsistence
Nun, Dhu an-, 169 (baqaj, 86,130
perseverance, 168
piety, pious, 67 God, 171; of the teacher,
pilgrim, 12 171, of the seeker, 186
“pillow friend,” 49 quest, 25, 174
plane, spheres of being, 129 Qushayri, ‘Abd al-Karim
Platonic ideas, 54 Abu al-Qasim al-, 2,16,
polarity, separation of the 27, 122, 168, 170, 176
opposites, 110,153 qufb (pole, Master or Seal of
pole (qutb), 73, 79 the Friends of God), 73
pool, 66
poor, destitute (al-faqir), 16
poverty, inner, 38, 156, 160, R
187 rahma (compassion), 33
power, Divine (qudra), 199 rain, grace, 92
practice(s), practicing, 124; rank(s), spiritual, 175, 176
of dhikr, 125, 139,182; rational soul, having intellect
of “Solitude in the (an-nafs an-ndtiqa), 198
Crowd” (khalwat dar realize, realization, the Real,
anjuman), 183 17,48,54,129, 131,
prayer rug, 63 154,178; Reality, 131,
presence without absence, 181,182, 212
179 reed, lamenting, 149, 200-
pretence (iddi'a), 133 201; ney flute, 200
Primordial Covenant, 136 reflection, 60
prison, 50 relinquish making choices,
procreators, 106 10
prophet(s), 111, 135; remembrance of God, 124,
Muhammad, 59,63,74, 125, 126, 134, 141-142
98,118, 130, 168,174, remover of obstacles
176 (mushkil gushd), 79, 83,
prostration, prostrator, 40, 89
168 repentance, 38
proximity, 33 restless, 10
psyche (nafs), 3 retracing, the mystical path,
purity, 67, 162 87
Revival of the Religious
Sciences, The, 188
Q righteous, just (?iddiq), 67
qalb (heart), 7, 9, 11 ripe(n), 71
qualities, of the Sufi, 171; of riyd' (appraisal of the nafs),
 28 secret(s) (sirr), 2, 8,18, 80,
riyddat an-nafs (training of 131,134, 138,185;
the self). 27 secret of breath, 180;
rock, as symbol of mercy, 84 secret of secrets, 163
rububiyya (sovereignty), 30, Secret of Secrets, The, 11-12,
152 14
ruler, absolute (al-hakim al- Secret Rose Garden. The,
mutlaq). 57 114
Rumi, 1, 19, 40, 49-51, 84- seed(s) (habb), 8; seeds of
85, 102, 112, 113,114, light, 48; “seed plot of a
115-116, 125, 129, 132, world to come,” 48
174, 190-191, 193, 194- self (nafs), 20, 24, 133, 143,
195,196, 199,200-201, 144; impulsive self (an-
202, 205-215 nafs al-ammara bi-s-
rung, spiritual station, 64 su'). 42; serene self (an-
ruse (makr), 35 nafs al-mutma ’ inna),
42; science of the self
( ’ilm an-nafs), 188
self-righteous, 34
S servant ( ’abd), servanthood
sadr (chest), 7 ( ‘ubudiyya), 10, 81,127
samd *(listening), 131, 132 separation, 210
Samarqand, 136 seven, heavens and earths,
Sana’!, Abu’ 1-Majd Majdud, 21, 193; seven pegs, 73;
145 seven valleys of the
San‘an, Sheikh, 116-119 mystical journey, 116
Sarraj, Abu Nasr as-, 161 severity, 39
Satan (Iblis), 4 sexual, 115; sexual longing,
Sayyid al-awliya ’ (Master of 116; potency, 111
the Friends of God; Shabistarf, Mahmud, 114
pole), 73 shadow, 50; God’s shadow,
scales, the “just” scales, 66 60; shadow in front of
scintillae, luminous particles, the heart’s eye, 5
48 shahawdt (appetites), 26
sea(s), 156; Sea of Death, 80; shahidna (“we testify”), 136
“where the two seas Shakespeare, William, 77
meet,” 77, 81, 85, 160 shatahdt (utterances), 20
Seal of the Friends of God sheikh, shaykh (teacher,
(khatam al-awliya'), 73 spiritual guide, elder),
116, 119
Shiraz, 78 speech, words, 112
shishya (disciple), 39, 154 spies, God’s, 77
Shams ad-Din of Tabriz, 212; spirit (ruh), 44, 134, 135,
as “complete man”, 212 199, 200
silence, silent, 136; silent spirituality, teaching through
dhikr, 134, 139-143; the spirit, 137, 142
Silent Sufis, 173 stamp, imprint, 127
silsila (lineage, chain), 98, star, 12,13, 14
136 state(s) (ahwal), 10, 54, 124,
siwd allah (that which is not 136, 141, 146, 149, 183;
God), 60 states as colors, 145,
sincerity, sincere worshippers 148, 169
(al-sadiqun), 33, 34, 66, station(s), stage(s)
68 (maqamdt), 10, 27, 144,
singularity. Divine, 131 153,154,166,182,189
Sirat al-awliya’ (The Way of Subhani! md a‘jjama sha’ni!
the Friends of God), 32, (Glory be to me! How
61 lofty am I!), 20
sirr (secret), 2,8, 9, 18, 131, successors, substitutes (al-
135,162, 185 abdal), 73, 122, 136
sisters of wife of at-Timtidhi, suffering, 37, 38, 39, 154,
67 211
“sit in front of,” teach (al~ rii/(wool), 171
qu‘ud lahum), 65 Sufi Rule fo r Novices, 175
slave, slavehood (‘abd, Sufism, Sufi(s), 188; good
‘ubudiyya), 8, 10, 30, nature in the Sufi, 165-
31, 189; see also servant 166, 219; presence
smoke screen, 5 without absence in the
snake, 20 Sufi, 179; way of life,
sobriety faaAw), 122 173
solitude, 31, 62, 176; Suhrawardi, Abu Najib as-,
“solitude in the crowd” 175, 176, 187
(khalwat dar anjuman), Sulami, Abu ‘abd ar-Rahman
134, 183 as-, 10, 134, 165,
Soloman, King, 115 168,170-171, 182, 183
Song of Songs, 103, 124 Sunken one, 31
source, 127, 197, 199 Sunni sharVa, 172
sovereignty (rubiibiyya), 30, surrender, 37
152 sweepers, Sufis as, 164, 170
sword, 40 time, moment in time (waqt),
symbols, 46 18,176
Symorgh, 8, 156 timeless moment, 80,127,
system(s), path of Self- 129, 130
Realization, 173, 187; timelessness (sarmadiyya),
School of Yoga, 173 128
Tirmidh, 3, 61
Tirmidhi, Abu ‘Abdallah
T Muhammad ibn ‘All al-
tafriqa (dispersion), 2, 11
Hakim at-, 3,4,5,6, 9,
Jalib, ‘All ibn Abl, 165 16, 32-34, 61, 62, 63,
talwin (fluctuation), 11,129,
64, 65-67, 68, 69-71, 72,
149, 150, 157; yo-yo 73, 74, 75, 76, 99,100,
syndrome, 159 111-112, 124, 142-143,
tamkin ( oneness), 11
163
taqallub (turning, fluctua­ Tirmidhi, at-, wife of, 62, 64,
tion), 9, 11 65-67, 68, 69-71, 72, 73,
tark al-ikhtlyar (to relinquish
74-75, 76
making choices), 10,31 tongue, 67; dhikr with the,
taste (dhawq), 17, 23 124; weight of tongue
tariqa (path), 98, 164
on the day of resurrec­
tawajjuh (sitting face to tion, 66
face), 140,142 training, spiritual, of the nafs,
tawba (turning of the heart,
27, 192
repentance), 87,118, transformation, spiritual, 28,
216 38, 69, 89, 190, 197;
teacher(s), mystical, 85, 92, power of love in, 206
94, 97, 98, 100, 137, transitory, 79
158, 166, 173, 174, 184, Transoxania, 32
189 treasure (trove), 4
temenos (inner sanctuary,
tree(s), olive, 12, 13; cosmic,
shrine), 13 13; of life, 13; of
test(s), testing (bald'), 38, 39 Oneness, 130; in Umm
threshold of love, 38 ‘Abdallah’s dream, 70-
thinking positively (husn ai- 71; of love, 182
lann), 166 Tremendum, 135
throat, 74 trickster, trick(s), 29, 35
Throne, Divine, 15, 33, 56, trust in God (tawakkul), 166-
64, 144, 182, 196 167
Truth, Divine, Absolute, 18, who have no corporeal
19,127,137, 155,192, teacher), 98
207-208, 212; “I am the
Truth” (and al-haqq),
20; Direct Road to, 173 V
turning of the heart valley(s), of love, 116; of the
(taqallub), 9, 11
mystical journey, 116;
Tustari, Sahl ibn ‘Abdallah of Quest, 187
at-, 125-126 Vaughan-Lee, Llewellyn,
Tweedie, Irina, 36-37, 39,94, 182
96,103-104,138, 154, veil(s), veiled, 5, 15, 16, 64;
157, 169,172, 175, 177, veil of dust, 14
187,191-194,204 vein, 112
vertical orientation, 182, 183,
184
U vigil, 117
‘ubudiyya (slavehood), 31 violence ( ’anwa), 173
‘ujb (inflation), 28
Ulysses’ sailors, 95
unconscious, 48 W
understanding (fahm), 58 wajd (ecstasy; taste), 18,19
Unity, Divine, (tawhid), 4, walk, “they whom the Lord
33,39,42, 127-128, has sent to walk to and
131, 181 fro.,., ” 68
Universal Intellect (al-'aql waqt (time, moment), 18, 80
al-kulli), 196
Warraq, Abu Bakr al-, 100,
universe, created, breathed- 101
out, 107; “in the whole water, 70, 209; water of life,
universe there are only 93
two..,,” 105 “Watch your step!” (nazar
Unseen World, 125, 190 bar qadam), 177
unveiled, 47 way, 36,102
Unveiling of the Veiled, The, wayfarer (as-sayydr), 190
(Kashf al-Mahjub), 165 Way of the Friends of God,
Utnapishtim, 80, 81 The (Sirat al-awliya'),
utterances (shatahat), 20, 41 32,61
Uways al-Qarani, 98, 99; weeping, 168
uwaysiyyun (seekers
well, Joseph in, SO Z
West, “...neither of the East zaddiq (righteous, the
nor of the West,” 12 $iddiq), 67-68
wheat, 50 Zechariah, 68
Whiffs o f Beauty and the zhikris), dhikrfs), 32, 129
Revelations o f Majesty, Zulaikha, 120-121
The, 15, 150
wick, 7
wildya, wait (the stage of a
Friend of God, a Friend
of God), 43
will, free, 10, 31, 42;
personal, 37
wilderness, 35, 63
wine, 44, 66, 209
wisdom, Divine (hikma), 199
witness, witnessing, 2
wander(er), 85
word(s), 112; creation by,
112; Divine word, 112
world, young again, 78
wujud (being, existence), 18,
19,58

Y
yajidun (to find), 19
yearning, of the soul, 119
Yemen, 98, 99, 171
Yoga, system, path of Self-
Realization, Raja Yoga,
173
youth(s) (murd), 119, 120; “I
saw my Lord ... youth,”
56
Yusuf (Joseph), 121
INDEX OF QUR’ANIC VERSES

Sura 2:115, Whichever way you tum, 10

Sura 2:117, He need only say ‘Be,’ and it is, 199
Sura 2:156, To Him do we return, 193
Sura 3:58-59, He created him of dust and then said to him: ‘Be,’
199
Sura 4:11, You do not know which of them is nearer to you in
benefit, 153
Sura 4:171, His word that He cast in Mary, 112
Sura 7:54, Call upon your Lord humbly and secretly, 137
Sura 7:99, Do they feel secure against God’s devising, 35
Sura 7:156, My Mercy encompasses all things, 104,106
Sura 7:172, And when thy Lord took from the Children of
Adam, 126, 136
Sura 10:62-64, Surely God’s friends—no fear shall be on them,
neither shall they sorrow... For them is good tidings in the
present life and in the world to come, 61
Sura 12:101, ‘This,’ said Joseph....‘is the meaning of my old
vision: my Lord has fulfilled it, 50, 226 (Dreams, n. 10)
Sura 17:1, Glory be to Him who made His servant go by night,
130
Sura 17:85, The spirit is of the bidding of my Lord, 135, 199
Sura 18:60-82, And.... Moses said to his page, ‘I will journey on
until 1 reach the land where the two seas meet... This is
what we were seeking.’... Then they found one of Our
servants.... You will not bear with me.... I will explain to
you those acts of mine.... that is the meaning of what you
could not bear to watch with patience,.,. What I did was not
done by my will, 80, 81-82,96, 97
Sura 19:35, When He decrees a thing, He need only say: ‘Be,’
199
Sura 21:47, We shall set up just scales, 66
Sura 24:35, Compared to a niche wherein is a lamp, 4,12,15
Sura 27:62, He who answers the constrained when he calls unto
Him, 30
Sura 27:88, And thou shalt see the mountains.... passing by like
clouds, 43
Sura 37:36, There is no god but God, 71
Sura 38:75, You created me from lire, but him from clay, 199
Sura 40:65, He has moulded your bodies into a comely shape,
199
Sura 40:68, If He decrees a thing. He need only say: ‘Be,’ 199
Sura 43:4, Behold it is the Essence of the Book in Our keeping,
sublime, 109, 231 (Eros, n. 16)
Sura 50:16, We are nearer to him than the jugular vein, 22, 47
Sura 52:3, The Inhabited House, 72-73
Sura 55:19, He let forth the two seas that meet together, 55
Sura 55:26, All is perishing except the face of your Lord, 86
Sura 55:29, Each day upon some task, 11
Sura 56:85, We are nearer to him than you, 47
Sura 57:3, God is the beginning and God is the end, 193
The Golden Sufi Center:
Information and Publications

Autobiographical Notes
 For permission to use copyrighted material, the author
gratefully wishes to acknowledge: Arts & Phillips Ltd., for
permission to quote from Mathnawi, translated by R.A.
Nicholson (© 1982); Bennett Books, for permission to quote
from The Masters o f Wisdom by J. G. Bennett (© 1980);
Bloodaxe Books Ltd., for permission to quote from In the
Skin House by Jeni Couzyn (© Bloodaxe Books, 1994);
University of Chicago Press, for permission to quote from
Mystical Poems o f Rumi, translated by A. J. Arberry,
edited by Dr. Ehsan Yarshater (© 1968); Islamic Text
Society and Drakes International Services, for permission
to quote from The Secret o f Secrets by Abd al-Qudir al-
Jalani (© 1992); Maypop Books, for permission to quote
from Delicious Laughter, translated by Coleman Barks;
Omega Press, for permission to quote from The Man o f
Light in Iranian Sufism by Henri Corbin (© 1978); Paulist
Press, for permission to quote from The Book o f Wisdom by
Ibn ’Ata Allah, translated by Victor Danner (© 1979);
Penguin Books Ltd., for permission to quote from The
Conference o f Birds by Farid ad-Din 4Attar, translated by
Afhham Dardandi and Dick Davis (© Penguin Classics,
1984); Princeton University Press, for permission to
quote from The Passion ofal-Hallaj by Louis Massignon,
translated by Herbert Mason (©1988 by PUP); Shambhala
Publications Inc., for permission to quote from Look! This
is Love: Poems of Rumi, translated by Annemarie Schimmel
(© 1991), reprinted by arrangement with Shambhala Pub­
lications Inc., 300 Massachusetts Avenue, Boston, MA
02115; Threshold Books, 139 Main St., Brattleboro, VT
05301, for permission to quote from Feeling the Shoulder
o f the Lion, translated by Coleman Barks (© 1991), Open
Secret, translated by John Moyne and Coleman Barks (©
1984), and Forty Days by Michaela Ozelsel (© 1996); and
State University of New York Press for permission to
quote from The Sufi Path o f Knowledge: Ibn al-Arabi's
Metaphysics o f Imagination (© 1989) and The Sufi Path o f
Love, The Spiritual Teachings o f Rumi (© 1983) by
W illiam C. Chittick.
THE GOLDEN SUFI CENTER is a California Religious
Non-Profit Corporation dedicated to making the teach­
ings of the Naqshbandi Sufi Path available to all
seekers. For further information about the activities
of the Center and Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee’s lectures,
write to:

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 OTHER TITLES PUBLISHED BY
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B Y IRINA T W E ED IE

D aughter of F ir e :
A D iary of a S piritual T raining with a S ufi M aster

BY LLEWELLYN VAUGHAN-LEE

T he B o n d w it h t h e B eloved:
T he M ystical R elationship o f the Lover a n d the B eloved
j *m

In the C o m pany of F r ie n d s :
D ream w ork w it h in a S ufi G r o u p

T ravelling the P ath of Lo v e ,

S a y in g s o f S ufi M asters

S u f is m , T h e T r a n s f o r m a t io n of the H eart

T he P a r a d o x es of Lo v e
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SARA SVIRI, Ph.D., studied Arabic and Islamic Studies

at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem , w here she later
taught in the Departm ent of Arabic. She currently holds
the Catherine Lewis Lectureship in medieval studies at
University College, London. She has written num erous
articles on Sufism and other topics from a Sufi perspec­
tive, including depth psychology and dreams. For the
last few years she has lectured extensively in Europe
and the U.S. on Sufism.