JourneyWoman

The Sufi Book and Music Blog

2008-07-10T00:14:00.003+01:00

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A New Blog

2007-08-17T23:18:00.000+01:00

Dear Friends and Readers I have started a new blog on WordPress. It is called 'Wild Dervish Writes' and is similar to JourneyWoman but with some new features. Please go over and take a look. I look forward to seeing you there. This one will be staying here for anyone who wants to read past posts and at some time in the future I might continue writing the 'Diary of an Andalucian Village' here.

At 'Wild Dervish Writes' you will also find a link to my new astore The Sufi Book Store

Thank you to all my readers here and I hope you continue to enjoy reading over at 'Wild Dervish Writes'

Diary of an Andalusian Village (4)

2007-07-05T18:25:00.000+01:00

The Sounds of Summer

The heat of summer is fully upon this little village, day and night, and with it come the special sounds of the season. Because the village is high in the Alpujarra Mountains we often have a pleasant breeze. The open air swimming pool has now opened for July and August and the sound of children having fun carries on the breeze.

It is during these two months that the village comes alive. Families who have moved down to the coast to live and work return to their ancestral home to relax and enjoy the countryside. The daytime is usually quiet apart from the singing of birds or the chatting of people on their way to the bakers for the day’s supply of bread.

It is after dark that the village begins to buzz with sound. After a hot day it is refreshing to sit out on patios and roof terraces to eat and chat. Groups of children can be heard playing outside until late. They are completely safe. The village is like a large family and everyone takes care of each other. The roads are little more than cemented tracks and in the middle of August you can be in the Plaza chatting about life with whoever is around.

Then there are the fiestas which are inevitably very noisy affairs with tables set up around the Plaza and free food for everyone and music until the early hours of the morning.

My favourite time of day is early morning before the sun rises. The only sounds come from the birds awakening and the bus arriving at 6am. This is a good time of day to go for a stroll. There is always a breeze as the sun rises and the mountains are bathed in a rosy glow. At times like this prayer comes naturally in unity with the entire natural world.

Language, Light, and Intention

2007-07-02T11:41:00.000+01:00

This is a fictional discussion on the nature of language. It is an excerpt from the next novel I plan to write.

‘Let’s look at language as an example.’ Dan stood up, swivelled his chair around and sat astride with his elbow resting on the chair back. His excitement was obvious and Bridget could not resist a smile despite her hesitation about the risks they were about to embark on.

‘Taking what we know about light, we can look at language in time and ask a few questions about the nature of knowledge acquisition. For example, who knows what is going to happen even within the next second?’ He rose again and walked purposefully to the coffee machine talking as he went. ‘Do we really understand how we traverse this moment into the next? The spoken, or written word, for example, is it made of particles, an accumulation of moments added together that result in meaning, or is it like a wave, a continuous flow that contains an inherent teleology?’ Dan poured himself a coffee and added three spoonfuls of sugar. Gavin refilled the machine, switched it on, turned around and leant against the sink without once breaking his concentration on Dan’s words. Bridget noticed that Philip was fidgeting and frowning hard. Then he spoke up, ‘I think you mean the thought, dear boy. It’s the thought that makes the spoken, or written, sentence.’

‘Ah, now that’s another matter. We are not talking origins at the moment. I want to keep this simple, Philip. Quantum physicists will tell you that what you find when you look at light depends on the observer. If you look for particles you find them, a world made of bits. If you look for a wave you find it, a world of continuity and unity. I prefer the latter. But what is happening if I speak or write, without pause, word-by-word? In one respect that seems like little more than particles randomly following one after the other. But there is teleology here, even though unthought. I can think it now as I speak without pause and it is called intention. That teleology is the desire to tap my creativity, to make room for that which otherwise might not emerge, a moment of inspiration that is uncensored and unformatted, simply allowed to transpire. What a great word, transpire, to breathe across. It reminds me of Blake, ‘He who kisses the joy as it flies…’

‘You do realise that you are coming very close to metaphysics, don’t you Dan?’ Nanon had been so quiet during the past half hour, standing by the window, a little apart from the rest of the gathering, that her voice startled them all, coming calm and authoritative after the tense excitement of Dan’s narrative. While everyone participated in the breathless sense of wonder of Dan’s account, Nanon’s remarks moved them all to a level of grave attention that subtly altered the mood of the room to one that appeared to align itself with the changing weather. The room had darkened as storm clouds stretched above the peninsula. Through the window they could see the slate grey light that anticipated a storm. A little rain began to splatter against the pane and thunder could be heard in the distance. Nanon moved away from the window and came closer to the table. Gavin offered her a coffee, which she gratefully took.

‘In the medieval universities of Baghdad and Cordoba there was no separation between physics and metaphysics. Philosophy was all about understanding the world in relation to humanity. The big questions, then, as now, were about our origins, our destiny, and the meaning of our lives, the ‘why’, ‘where’, and ‘how’. The difference between science then and science today is that up until the enlightenment that which is invisible, unknowable, and supratemporal, was not considered to be non-existent. The other significant difference is that some enlightened souls had some pretty stunning ideas on the matter of knowledge acquisition.’

‘How do you mean?’ queried Ben, looking as if he well knew the answer but that some of the others might be grateful for an explanation.

Nanon remained silent for a moment, staring attentively at Ben.

‘I’m hungry Ben. I’m sure we all are. I could also do with a change of scenery. Shall we go down to the Mermaid Inn and get a bite to eat?’

‘Good idea.’ Bridget slid off the table, ‘they’ve got a private room there. We can continue the conversation over supper, although to me it sounds more like a briefing. Am I right? Nanon? Daniel?’

The Threshing Circle (excerpt from a novel in progress)

2007-06-26T21:53:00.001+01:00

Threshing Circle

A threshing circle is about sixty feet in diameter. It is built of cobbled stones spiralling from the centre outwards. There are many of them in the Alpujarra mountain range. There is no longer any need to separate the grain from the chafe as wheat is not grown in this part of Spain any more. Threshing circles are now protected sites. Wild flowers and grasses push up between the cracks. The wind remains. A threshing circle is always placed in a position most open to the wind with valleys or ravines all round. They afford the best views and Yolanda had discovered one just outside her chosen village within a week of her arrival. Every morning at dawn she would leave her rented house and walk to the threshing circle. As she left the village she smiled in anticipation. The noises of an awakening community, endearing as they were, now receded behind her. She heard only the song of birds. Upon stepping on to her circular sanctuary she inhaled deeply and once again, as every morning, she expressed thanks for the wide open space, for the strong breeze, for the paradoxical sense of tranquillity and shelter in such an exposed spot.

A small grove of cypresses stood close to the circle, and a stone wall that was the only remains of an ancient dwelling. A dog rose grew across what would once have been a corner of the house but which now spilt its old stones down the steep incline of the mountain side. An old shoe and a broken water flask lay abandoned amongst the rubble and fallen foliage.

Copyright Y K Randall, Granada, 2007

Mezquita Córdoba

2007-06-22T14:45:00.001+01:00

Mesquita Córdoba
Originally uploaded by Roger.Esteban

The Mezquita of Cordoba leads into a forest of arches, double arches of ochre and white painted stone resting on jasper and marble pillars. This is a palm forest of infinite invitation and limitless paths through the light of the heart. The arched entrance promises an oasis that offers shelter from the glare of the noon sun, or from the sudden downfall of fierce rain. It is a refuge of prayer once frequented by saints and philosophers, mystics and craftsmen.

Reading the Story in Diverse Genres

2007-06-19T08:38:00.000+01:00

I have been busy creating a Lens on Squidoo about the story within. Take a look here

Many Pathways

2007-06-19T08:33:00.000+01:00

Strawberry Moon

2007-06-04T23:41:00.001+01:00

Originally uploaded by Bladeflyer

I only recently discovered that at the end of June we will have a Strawberry Moon. I had never heard of this before but after a bit of research I learned that it is the name for the full moon in the strawberry picking month. This is a poem in honour of the Strawberry Moon.

Strawberry Moon

Strawberry moon you bloom
with joy, blushing red
in the love the One bestows

Deep in the night, alone
with light, baring your
face to the listening heart

Strawberry moon you bloom.
Pass a secret kiss
from the Beloved to us

Deep in the night, alone,
lovers on earth long
to taste such a loving embrace

Unsay her Softly Today

2007-05-12T09:47:00.000+01:00

Unsay me softly today

You shall have your way

as this ego self,

borrowed like a thumbprint from time,

ceases to chime. Or better said

the echo of the swinging bell

is swallowed back into the cavernous

belly of an intent unrung

Tell her not that this idiot is done,

but take her and wring her until she is unsung.

Unsay her softly today

and blow her to the midnight sun,

heart wide open,

on the breath of Your Rahman

Entheos: Musings on the Meaning Behind a Word

2007-04-23T16:14:00.000+01:00

Enthusiasm is a word that has its origin in the Greek word, entheos, meaning ‘having the god within’. The present day dictionary definition of enthusiasm is: 1. Great excitement for or interest in a subject or cause. 2. A source or cause of great excitement or interest (The Free Dictionary online). Today the word is used for just about anything that excites our interest whether or not that interest is inspired by the divine.

Reflecting on the state of enthusiasm, how it feels, its source and its trajectory, I cannot ignore the etymology of the word itself. A simple word that means nothing until we lend it meaning and context and yet, simultaneously, a state exists that requires this word for its manifestation in the world of language and communication. If this state desires form it seeks linguistic expression and takes the risk of misapprehension and misinterpretation.

Those who are enthused know themselves and each other but when the heart speaks to the mind of the soul’s state and desires to transmit its energy through the body and into the world of forms, it requires manifestation. It begins with the experience of a sent energy and becomes an image that speaks silently to the soul. It then demands to be shared and this is initially evident in the physical effects it has on the person experiencing the energy.

The energy that has penetrated the individual then seeks a bridge; an image arises in the soul of the recipient and offers itself as a conversant. “Speak with me”, it bids, “I invite you to discover the meaning, the trajectory of this energy. This is a gift.” Here we are on the edge of the world we know and longing to walk into a world we do not know but for which we are ready and yearning. This is a pre-lingual, pre-conceptual, pre-awareness moment. In order for the image that has arisen in the soul’s personal configuration of the energy by which it has been penetrated, in order for this energy to enter language and form, and thereby to initiate creative action, it requires a bridge, a liminal space that unites the two.

The image itself is the first bridge between the experienced energy and its presentation to the heart but now a second bridge is necessary for that image to speak and become manifest in the life of the individual. This second bridge is built by conversation between the image and the one in whom it has arisen. This dialogue can take place through painting, writing, speaking with a trusted guide, anything that comes from the heart and opens the heart to the meaning that is seeking creative form. The energy has crossed the bridge to the heart by manifesting as an image; the image has crossed another bridge by speaking with the heart. The final bridge is taking what has been imparted and putting it into action in one’s life.

The Most Exalted Pen writes the meanings and the destinies. The mythos contains the logos and the logos likewise contains the mythos. The meaning becomes manifest and the form contains its originating meaning. This meaningful content is the wisdom of logos, the Sophia, Shekinah, Sakina, the indwelling silence of Presence. When Ibn ‘Ata’illah says, “Actions are lifeless forms, but the presence of an inner reality of sincerity (sirr al-ikhlas) within them is what endows them with life-giving Spirit” then I am reminded also of words and their meanings and so return to the beginning of these musings and the word ‘entheos’. It is a word created by humans and therefore the history of its usage carries the history of human achievements and failings, the occasional wisdom and the plethora of ignorance that denote an awareness of origin or the forgetfulness of such respectively. For me, entheos, is about the One, the Real, speaking to and guiding the loving heart.

The mythos that became logos reveals its content. It unveils; it strips off the form to reveal its pure creative energy as an Attribute of the One, as the energy of a Name that writes on the blank page of surrender.

The Eternal Moment

2007-04-22T21:55:00.000+01:00

This moment is the last moment in my life. How can it be otherwise? If we are travelling on our journey of return, no matter how slow our progress may be at times, there can be no movement if each moment is not the last, and there can be no trajectory if each moment is not also the first. In this world there can be no first unless it is born from the last. It is the last that gives birth to the first. But when last and first are clasped in an embrace reminiscent of the yin/yang symbol then they each lose themselves in the other and become the eternal moment. Past and future roll back into this moment, they are excursions, manifestations of the eternal in which we are offered lessons that open our eyes. But if we forget that linear time as we perceive it has its origin and return in the eternal moment then the umbilical cord of love and remembrance becomes rusty and we are left flailing in the illusion of a satanic permanence. The eternal moment is changeless but those who travel its limitless terrain, in Allah, with Allah, through Allah, experience continuous unveilings of the One.

Prayer In Translation

2007-03-06T22:41:00.000Z

i translate,

from one world to another,

words that bounce

like puppies at play.

Adjectives that fly

and then transform.

Nouns that proceed

in majesty,

and all those little words

that fill in and add.

But then comes occasionally

the word that resists,

it won’t fly or bounce,

instead it struggles.

Weep for the word

that won’t translate.

Seek the prayer

in its silent spaces.

Find its speech

in your flood of tears

Shaykh's Blog

2007-03-01T09:51:00.000Z

There is a new Sufi blog on the Sufi blogosphere. It is run by Shaykh Ibrahim al-Ansari of the Qadiri-Rifai tariqa. This blog offers the opportunity of discussing various aspects of the Sufi path and is well worth a visit. Just click here.

On the Road

2007-03-01T09:03:00.000Z

Recently my Shaykh set me an assignment to take a camera and go ‘hunt light’. So I took a digital camera that is as old as a digital camera can be and went for a stroll through the village and its outskirts. Of course light is always present but are we always aware of it? The light of the Real is eternally present but how easy it is to shroud the gaze behind preoccupation with the day’s events, or the various concerns and emotions that we allow to cloud our hearts from its capacity to embrace the whole of life as a gift and a journey towards our potential destination as true human beings. I perceive it as an adventure that is full of lessons and trials, beauty and love.

I have chosen this photo of the road outside my village because for me it symbolizes this journey. A route taken with the support of Sufi practice that involves constantly pulling the focus back to the One Who is within all creation. Closer to us than ourselves and beyond our imagining; before all beginnings and after all endings; immanent and transcendent, full of love, majesty, and light. I’m still at the beginning and stumbling over obstacles whose source is finally in me, the tricks of the nafs (ego matrix), that need to be transformed into helpers along the way. This vehicle needs maintenance and that is also part of being on the road and it is well worth it when those moments of awareness of the unity and love of God arise.

Fig on Fire

2006-11-22T23:54:00.000Z

A fig on fire is Autumn’s sweet song, as she pulls down her sap and allows the wind to carry her leaves into the earth’s lap. Her colours are a rapture to the senses as she appears to wither and die, and her branches become naked to the winter sky. She is going into retreat right down to her roots where she will hear the ancient whispers of each traveller she has refreshed with her fruits. Snow will fall and cover her nakedness as she covered Adam’s and Eve’s, then it will melt and she will drink, nourished by her modesty as she weaves. Another season’s energy and she emerges from retreat, her enlivened sap falling into the traveller’s hand, offering the sweet fruit that she has drawn from the land.

Three Things She Loves

2006-11-17T16:02:00.000Z

There are three things she loves

Her prayer rug
Her prayer beads
Her prayer robe
They take her to the One
Besides Whom there is none

Her prayer rug
Flies to heights
Unimagined
Then bids solemn farewell
Beside Him there is none

Her prayer beads
Are Hu’s doors
Wide with love
Only His Names remain
In eternal refrain

Her prayer robe
Is His embrace
Like the womb
It contains the mercy
Of Ar-Rahman

But even her robe,
At the Lote Tree
Of the Utmost Boundary,
Flees and leaves her naked
Before the Lord
As she is cracked open
Losing every veil
That hides the One

Uniting the Opposites

2006-11-07T20:34:00.000Z

It has been raining for nearly three days now with a few breaks. We are so high here that sometimes the clouds rise up from the Mediterranean and wrap themselves around us. When I looked out last night nothing could be seen but a few house lights hanging in the dense mist. Earlier on I heard a few rumbles of thunder but the storm did not come our way. It was a pleasant synchronicity today that while reading Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani’s ‘The Secret of Secrets’ I came across the following ayat (verses) from the Qur’an which he introduces like this (translated by Shaykh Tosun Bayrak al-Jerrahi al-Halveti):

“Two of the four elements are earth and water, which are responsible for the growth of faith and of knowledge, give life to the living and appear in the heart as humbleness, for earth is humble. The other two elements are fire and ether. They are the opposites of earth and water. They burn, destroy, kill. It is the Divine that unites these opposites in one being. How do water and fire coexist? How are light and darkness contained within the clouds?

It is He Who shows you lightning, causing both fear and hope; it is He Who raises up the clouds heavy with rain.

Nay, thunder repeats His praises, and so do the angels, with awe. He flings the loud-voiced thunderbolts and therewith strikes whomsoever He will … (Sura Ra’d 12, 13)

Barakah for the Book of Roses

2006-10-29T12:10:00.000Z

I listen to my heart
And breathe
The scent of love.
I listen to my heart
And devour
The taste of desire.
I see and hear
Words written
Into an ancient book
Of which I never tire.
It is the story
Of the Beloved’s purpose
To which I aspire

And yet I ask
And ask again
Ya Rabb!
Help me read
This book within
That is covered
With the roses
Of Your love
And reminds me
Of the deen.
And then I know,
My fingers speak
My heart is keen

“Pour your love
Into those words
Of silent longing.
It knows the rose,
And in the dark
Flies the nightingale
Following the fragrance,
Opening her throat
To tell the world
The Beloved
Has bridged the moat”

In the morning
Comes a sign,
Passed from sister
To dear sister
To sister again.
A barakah chain
And meanings align
To place a hand
On the heart
Of this fool
And a whisper,
“Be my tool,
You are nothing,
Hu is all!”

A gift of roses
To mark the book,
Hu’s Name,
Ahmad’s light,
Beads of prayer,
Is what it took
To take me there.
Now this fool
Will keep this gift
And ever hear,
“Be my tool,
You are nothing,
Hu is all!”

Book of Roses

2006-10-29T10:51:00.000Z

An Imminent fugue

2006-10-27T22:09:00.000+01:00

Rain Blessings

2006-10-27T22:02:00.000+01:00

The weather has suddenly turned wet and cold. It has rained all night for two nights in a row now. This is wonderful as we have had very little water for two years and are officially experiencing a drought. High up in the mountains here, and with the Mediterranean before us, we get to see a lot of sky and one of the joys of autumn and winter are the fantastic cloud formations and the uncluttered views of sunrise and sunset. Even better are the thunder storms which you can watch moving across the mountains until it’s right overhead and it becomes more sensible to get off the roof and run in doors before flying debris, or even lightning, strikes you down. The village is then transformed into a series of waterfalls as the rain gushes down and washes away the dust from streets and vegetation. Everything is so much greener after the mighty wash.

Text of Love
I watch the clouds today
in colours purple, indigo and grey,
hanging dark and huge, as
swollen with an imminent fugue

Colour sings alone the theme,
joined in fury by wildest wind.
Then in contrapuntal dash
texture shot by lightning flash.

Skip one, skip two in silent
consonance until divergent
motion tears apart the map
with the din of thunder clap

It has broken. Rain slaps ground,
sky begins again the round,
displays its stunning beauty
with majestic, trembling sound

Hu’s Names alive in vibrant signs,
a language for each eye and ear.
A text of love writ on the body
of creation far and near

After the storm the water flows.
Running in rivulets down
every street. It knows
intimately each parched atom

in this thirsty land. Field,
and rock, deep roots of loss,
your heart, mine too,
is nourished by the rain of Hu

© Katherine Randall, Granada 2006

Poets of Love

2006-10-24T08:45:00.000+01:00

It is autumn, a time of ripened figs eaten straight from the trees or threaded on string and hung for drying. It is also the season of the almond harvest. As the husks split open to reveal the nuts, those villagers who have land are all out with sticks and nets to gather in a prodigious amount of the nuts this year. Although almond trees look so graceful they are in fact very robust and take a good beating at harvest time and vigorous pruning later in the year. Gathering in the almonds is hard work and can take a couple of weeks depending on how many you have. Not for me though, I have one almond tree in my little yard. I give it a bit of a shake and the almonds fall to the ground. I also have a couple of cats who enjoy climbing the tree and their antics amongst its branches bring down a few more. So while the rest of the village is working hard what am I doing? I am busy working with words. As the almonds of the fields are being transformed into marzipan or those delicious soplillos, meringues with chopped almonds, I am striving to transform words into poetry, or reflections on life and living. I haven’t posted here for a while, but I hope to begin again with more regularity. As life changes and the path of surrender brings its surprises, trials, and lessons I discover the need to write more poetry and poetic prose. These mediums offer a greater chance of expressing the ineffable, of grounding the celestial, and of offering a service of love. Having said that I must add that my attempts are still very much at the beginning of this path and there is a lot of work to do. I need a bit of ‘beating and pruning’ to produce the fruit, just like those almond trees. I am reminded of the sema of the Mevlani dervishes, as they whirl they hold one hand up, palm open to the heavens, and one hand down, palm open to the earth, acting like conduits for the light of Allah (swt). I believe those masters of tasawwuf, Rabi’a, Rumi, Hafiz, Yunus Emre, to name a few of those visionary poets, perform a similar function with their words. They move the soul of the reader and stir the heart. How good it would be to be just a fleck of dust in the hem of their robes and to listen as they utter their words of love.

Diary of an Andalusian Village (3)

2006-06-09T12:42:00.000+01:00

Diary of an Andalusian Village (3)

It is already June and it is some time since I last posted anything here. I was away for a while travelling but I have also been in a more ‘listening’ mode recently. Many thanks to all the dear friends who have left such kind comments recently.

Usually at this time of year the weather is simply hot and dry but we are experiencing a combination of overcast, rainy, hot or stormy days; quite a mix of moods. The advantages of this are the many wild flowers, profuse and diverse, which are blessed with an extended length of stay this year. The time for ploughing the fields and pruning the crops has now passed and we watch as fruit begins to ripen; a fitting metaphor for life, I am nowhere near finished with the pruning and ploughing of my renegade nafs (Sufi term for ego, or less than truly human forces). That is a lifelong endeavour, no doubt.

I missed the village and the mountains while I was away but I had the pleasure of visiting my children and the wonderful little boy who has transformed me into a grandmother! Now they are all beautiful fruits to be truly thankful for, Alhamdulillah!

Drown Me in Hu!

2006-05-03T13:13:00.000+01:00

I sit in the stillness of a thousand reflections
while the bees hum as they seek the fullness of summer
and the cold stone of the water basin beneath me
lends a welcome coolness in the sun burnt air.

A blaze in my eye and I in Yours, as water pours
from the rock that records the tears of generations
and splashes against my skin, burning my heart
like sparks of fire as each drop catches the light.

Reflections of You in the mirrors of the seasons.
Oh mihrab of my heart, leaping like a golden fish
from rock to basin, from tears to fiery love,
carry me to the ocean and drown me in Hu!

The Night is Light

2006-04-13T22:48:00.000+01:00

I love the night, so full of light. Light so clear that it blurs the parameters of this ME. Light that calls me to join and take flight. I rush headlong into a different world, a world that is so easy to forget, except at night. My heart becomes transparent and the nocturnal pulse that beats through the soil, even flies through the air, and stalks in the undergrowth, courses through my limbs and meets my womb. Below my heart another pulse beats. It gathers seed into a waiting space, until, overflowing, it imparts to my naked feet a knowledge of every contour of the land. I begin to walk.

Running over the moors I hear the river declaring my progress, laughing at the spirit always running ahead of me. I go down to a quiet pool and slide into the deep, black water. Echoes of the river’s laughter further upstream reach my ears. Suddenly the water is cold, the light has left and I have been caught napping.

As I run, I leave only damp footprints behind me, sufficient for the Beloved to track me. I run forwards, I run with, I run towards the All-Embracing Light. The night tricks me. Caught unaware, it takes me in a tight embrace and for moments I cease to breathe. One. Two. Three. A meteorite reveals its activity. Release! The night expanse enlightens this vulnerable being, breathes it, and sparks the spirit!

We Can't Stop Dancing In the Tavern

2006-04-13T22:38:00.000+01:00

We can’t stop dancing
in the tavern!
Around each other,
with each other,
towards each other.
I pirouette and stamp.
Clap! Who is your lover?

You raise your glass with glee
and scoff the wine,
smiling like a satyr,
singing like a saint,
moving like a lover.
I loop my hands through space.
Whirl! Come face to face!

You raise your arms with passion.
Supple hands swoop
to embrace my waist,
take my hand,
ignite my heart.
A prayer escapes our souls
as we dance like holy fools

Unrobed

2006-04-04T02:18:00.000+01:00

Unrobed, the night reveals
the stuff of the heart
until dawn breaks and alights
on heavens well-aimed dart.

Startled, the lover runs amok.
But too late dear one,
the wound bleeds abundant love,
and to the Beloved you must run.

Diary of an Andalusian Village (2)

2006-03-18T09:43:00.000Z

Spring Flowers and Arab Towers

It’s much warmer up here in the mountains now. When the seasons change it happens quite abruptly leaving you walking around in inappropriate clothing for a couple of days until you realize this is really it and Spring has arrived. This happens especially when, like me, I took a very early bus to a town much further down the mountain and found that although it was chilly waiting for the bus with only a jumper on instead of a coat, by the time I arrived it was very hot indeed.
This morning I visited my friend who I haven’t seen in a while because she and her husband have been busy bringing in the olive harvest. We speak some of the time in Spanish and some of the time in English so each can learn the others language. Today she took me down to her land outside the village. They keep bees as well and as we sat by an ancient Arab water basin we were surrounded by them. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Amalia, ‘they know me,’ and it was true, neither of us was stung. Above the water basin was a stone built arch, the entrance to a tunnel into the cliff side which is part of the old system of irrigation that directs water to where it is needed as it flows off the mountain. Water is scarce so every drop is precious. Vegetation isn't as lush up here as it is down on the coast but, apart from the almond trees which have been in blossom for about a week now, there is an array of spring flowers many of them so tiny you have to bend down to see them reveal their intricate beauty. The soil is full of stones and rocks and conducive to the abundant growth of wild rosemary, thyme, lavender, and sage. Once upon a time wheat was grown here as well but the only remaining witness to this are the large round threshing circles, built of cobbled stone and placed strategically on the windiest outcrops. You can be assured that if you are standing on a threshing circle you will be looking out on a wide open view in all directions; down the valleys to the Mediterranean coastline with its regular tower-forts that served as lookout posts and beacons, allowing news to travel literally as fast as fire from Cadiz to Almeria.
As we get back in the car, Amalia tells me proudly that there are two Arab graves on her land. I nearly jump out of the car again but she has already turned the ignition, I really want to see those graves and she promises to take me to them next time. I begin to wonder if the former Arab owners of this land, who have left signs of their presence clear to see, were actually Amalia's ancestors, maybe a family who were victims of the Inquisition and the forced conversions of the 15th and 16th centuries? There must be records somewhere of the Muslim presence in the rural areas of the mountains, it's obvious, of course, in the architecture, the agriculture, the language, and the large Arab built towns such as Cordoba, Seville, Granada, but the Spanish people went through a huge denial of their Islamic (and Jewish) heritage even succumbing to the dubious and destructive claim of 'racial purity' during the time of Franco when Muslims and Jews were forbidden entry into Spain. These mountains once provided food supplies to the Kingdom of Granada and the people who worked hard on the land deserve recognition. I am hoping that when I go to see those graves with Amalia they will have tombstones with names on them.

The Guided One

2006-03-13T13:00:00.000Z

Amidst the sea of rising tides
That will not rest 'til morning
Rides a wooden boat astride
The crest of final calling.

Upon the bow and standing tall
A man defies the chaos
Damascus is in sight, he calls
And all around him fighting

In white foamed eddies of the dips
A thousand voices shouting
'Take us aboard the barque of love
O saving one, our King!'

I cannot see you through the spume
You gather all around you
Lay down your arms of ignorance
Unveil the love within

The moment of unveiling comes
And thrice takbir is sounded
The Guided One with voice of strength
Has silenced all the jinn

The sun has set and all is dark
So many have departed
All who remain look to the West
To see the sun arising

Copyright Katherine Randall, Granada, 2006

The Imagination and the Soul

2006-03-08T14:26:00.000Z

Recently I spoke to Imam Luqman Ali about his activity as artistic director of the Khayaal Theatre Company. The following are the answers he gave to my questions and illustrate the relevance of the company’s work in today’s world.

An Interview with Imam Luqman Ali
Artistic Director of the Khayaal Theatre Company

Brother Luqman, I visited your website http://www.khayaal.co.uk/ and was fascinated by the work you do. It is very encouraging to see Muslim creativity presented in this way as it takes us into the many-dimensional world of the imagination. The name of your theatre company is Khayaal, the Arabic word for imagination. The role of the imagination in the arts is obvious but do you also relate this name to Ibn 'Arabi's concept of an intermediate world, the 'Alam al-Khayaal, or realm of the imaginal, which is said to be the world of the soul?

Luqman Ali
Yes, we do relate the name of our company to the conception of khayaal as expounded by Ibn Arabi. But then everything is khayaal as a statement of Ibn Arabi asserts:

'Everything engendered in existence is imagination – but in fact it is Reality. Whoever understands this truth has grasped the mysteries of the Way.’

The world of khayaal, or Aalamu 'l-khayaal is of numerous ascending gradations. At the lower end, we have the dense and shadowy and at the higher end the translucent and luminous. But ultimately from the perspective of the Divine, it is all akin to a dream, for if we dream, that activity must reflect and be rooted in some Divine act. This metaphorical dream of God is alluded to in a statement made by the great Taoist master Chuang Tse:

'Confucius and you are both dreams, and I who say you are dreams am a dream myself. This is a paradox. Tomorrow a wise man may explain it; that tomorrow will not be for ten thousand generations.'

By working with literature that explores universal virtues and sacred
symbolism, we aspire to align the cascading signs of meanings and forms and in such a manner as to give people a glimpse of the imaginal, which we believe will stimulate reflection and contemplation.

K
I find your answer very exciting, Brother Luqman as I have been reading Ibn 'Arabi for some time and I often ask myself whether this contact with the imaginal is sorely lacking in the world today, especially in education, and that a greater immersion into the imaginal world of many layered meaning and sacred symbols, as you say, would also act as an enrichment for those who tend to a literalist and two dimensional way of thinking. Do you see the arts of storytelling and performance as a way to break through to that immense world of the soul, especially important in today's often bleak cultural landscape that is offered young people?

Luqman Ali
The cultural landscape is bleak because the connections of its language, symbols and metaphors with the world of cosmological and spiritual meaning have largely been severed or so obfuscated that popular culture seldom truly liberates one from the confines of the sensory. 'Liberal' in the term liberal arts originally meant that the intention of these arts was to liberate one from the ephemeral so that one might reflect upon the eternal or from the finite so that one might reflect upon the infinite.
Provided storytelling and performance re-establishes and illustrates the connections between form and meaning, the physical and metaphysical, the sensory and the spiritual, then they can provide an opportunity for people to break through to a greater appreciation of the world of the soul and thereby find a greater sense of equilibrium and fulfilment. At a time when the prevailing popular and universal cultural language is drama, it will inevitably be the most effective means of achieving this, especially in the case of young people who have by and large been hemmed in and rendered desacralised by the secular dream of material success to such an extent that traditional means of spiritual edification have become ineffective.

At a time when all shadow points deeper into the pitch of darkness,
Shadows pointing towards the light are akin to light itself.

To visit the Khayaal Theatre Company website click here: http://www.khayaal.co.uk/

Diary of an Andalusian Village

2006-03-02T01:42:00.000Z

A Winter’s Day in a Spanish Village

Winter is a strange time up here in the mountains. I remember one Christmas, just two years ago, when it was so warm that people were wearing summer clothes and sitting outside the cafés drinking coffee and chatting. The good weather continued on into January and that was the year we saw the Moroccan coastline during sunset several days in a row. This time last year saw a completely different scenario with snow drifts several feet thick and some people having to be rescued from their Cortijos (farmhouses) by helicopter. Locals said they had never seen anything like it before, they were used to a light sprinkling of snow but not this much and for so long. This year has been cold with a little snow and some rain. I don’t know if these aberrations in the usual weather patterns have anything to do with global warming, I suspect they do, but I do wonder if more dramatic landscapes like ours feel the changes in more obvious ways.

With a population of approximately five hundred people, the village is very small and in one respect there’s not a great deal going on here in terms of cultural, or social events but in other ways this is a very lively community and its life is patterned by the seasons and work in the fields. A lot of people own land as well as their houses in the village. Barely anyone here can make a decent living from agriculture, the crops being figs, almonds, vines, and olives there are other places in the world who with large-scale farming dominate the markets. Agriculture here serves more as a useful addition to the annual income and of course to the family diet. Favourite vegetables are peppers of all varieties, broad beans, courgettes, aubergines, avocados, and a variety of fruits. Slim red peppers tied to string and hung up to dry decorate the balconies and patios of many a house here in late summer. Alas it is winter now and today I've been sitting at my laptop writing while the clouds over the Mediterranean rose and wrapped themselves (do they have selves?) around the village. I couldn't even see the church when I looked out of the window and that is saying something. It does not have much in the way of architectural merit but it is very large for such a small community and it dominates the plaza, in fact there isn't much plaza left over because of the size of the church. Wrapped in cloud today it was obscured from view but it could be heard. When someone dies in the village the church bells ring and they rang this evening. I don't know who died but I will hear about it tomorrow when I go down to the bakery for bread. Those church bells have been ringing quite often for the dead this winter.

Attempting to Imagine

2006-02-26T22:40:00.000Z

When I started this blog in January I posted an excerpt of a novel in progress. Because I feel a need to return to the more poetic and inspirational after the past weeks with all the awful news of the Danish cartoons, and now the horror of the bombing of the Holy Shrine in Samarrah, I’m posting another excerpt from the novel. We have some excellent writers in the Islamic blogosphere who can write about politics a lot better than I am able to and many thanks to them for their invaluable work. As for me, weeping won’t change much so I try to write stories in the hope that the imagination can. The following describes the extraordinary conversion experience of a man who has studied and taught Islam at University for years but always remained sceptical of embracing the faith.
*
Clare and Miguel
Half an hour later and Miguel stood before the main entrance to the Alhambra and gazed up at the symbolic key above the outer arch and the outstretched hand whose five fingers reminded the faithful of the foundations of their faith. He entered and moved straight to the Nasrid quarters. He had been here so often and never tired of its beauty or its historical importance. He could truly claim that his first acquaintance with the Alhambra over thirty years ago had marked the inception of an academic career that had brought him a great deal of intellectual satisfaction and great respect for Islam.
‘No more than that?’
Had someone whispered in his ear? Or was it the light breeze that blew through the cypresses? Startled, Miguel looked around. What was transpiring? Why did the very air appear to unknot and emit a fragrance that Miguel could only describe as arousing simultaneous emotions of joy and terror? It was tinged with sibylline memories of grace and love, blended subtly with earthy undertones of a dark fear. This fragrance dismantled his ego and stripped his soul naked. He searched frantically for the owner of the voice, rotating on the spot, his eyes darting in every direction.
He stood near a mihrab, the arched alcove that indicated the direction for prayer, and his restless gestures were brought to a sudden halt as the subtle movement of a finely woven robe drew his attention. A female figure issued from the niche of the mihrab and stretched her hand toward him. Confused, Miguel first took her to be one of the many tourists that visit the Alhambra and he looked around to see who she might be offering her hand to. There was no-one else in the vicinity, Miguel stood there alone and, for moments that raised him above the normal dictates of time, he stood in a silence so complete that he imagined hearing the finest of melodies emanate from the fragrance and descending around him like a rain of barakah.
‘You have not brought her to me yet?’
She questioned him softly. Her tones applied a soothing effect to his perplexed mood. Her appearance filled his soul with an unexpected serenity, and yet he would not have believed there could be so much pain in that serenity; the sorrow of a regret that sought atonement without naming its source, a sorrow that manifested as an accompaniment to serenity for only serenity was able to contain and allow its cathartic effect. Overcome by emotion he began sobbing.
‘Do not worry,’ she continued, and she bent forward slightly to brush a smudging of fine sand from her clothes. She glanced toward the fountain in the Court of Lions and then returned her gaze to Miguel. Those eyes carried a deep affirmation of her ease on the soil of his homeland and a conspiratorial spark signalled her inclusion of him in the heritage of this country; this country that was now forever another. The Spain of his birth had become a land that marked the remembrance of the journey he was about to undertake and that he would henceforth travel wholeheartedly. The mihrab from which the woman had emerged transformed into the springboard of his heart.
‘Do not worry. You will bring her here one day soon and I will be here to meet you.’
She swung around and blended subtly into the intricate textures of her surroundings until she was no longer visible.

Miguel was shaken. A few minutes ago he could not have believed anything of what had just happened to him. Surely occurrences like this were the figments of overheated imaginations? He knew with conviction that this was not so in his case. Everything that had just transpired contained a core of uncommon reality that spoke with a rare eloquence of compassion. He had no idea what she had meant about someone he had not brought with him but she had spoken more than words. Her very being had transformed what he had always taken to be a healthy scepticism into a sureness of faith. No! Transformed was not the right word. He had simply been recalled to what his soul had always professed. The pace of terror and joy pulsed through his heart at an increasing speed and he questioned his ability to sustain it without damage to his system. Previously it would have been impossible for him to contain this fear and this love simultaneously. He admitted to himself that he would have made an attempt to turn away, take the easy option as he had done for most of his life, yet now something was telling him that this was the meaning of ‘insh’allah’, the primal covenant that we all made before birth and that we continuously forgot, always needed to remember. The Covenant of Return trembled as the vibrations of an eternal string instrument, and so finely that perceiving it required the art of loving. So much of our original nature as true human beings was veiled and wrung from us in the mangle of sensual gratification and egoism that we no longer understood the meaning of loving oneself. This is surely the origin of my fear, thought Miguel. It is the fear of letting go.
Copyright Katherine Randall, Granada 2006

Xenophobia

2006-02-24T13:49:00.000Z

These remarks by Australian Federal Treasurer Peter Costello demonstrate a xenophobia of the scariest kind. Many thanks to Tasmiya whose link directed me to Umm Yasmin’s article on Costello’s speech. I refuse to be scared but increasingly over recent weeks I have wanted to weep and asked myself, ‘What can we do?’

Hacking Protest Against Danish Cartoons

2006-02-20T20:31:00.000Z

I have just read this article in BuzzWebster:politics online. What do you think about this form of protest?

Three Reasons Why I Consider Islam to be Groundbreaking

2006-02-20T16:54:00.000Z

Initially I thought I would write about the three reasons that I find Islam so groundbreaking and why I embrace Islam fully. These three reasons are the Oneness of God (Tawhid), the universal appeal of Islam, and the fact that in Islam God has no gender. Now there is quite a lot to write about these three points, they yield an abundant harvest of reflections* on diverse theological, philosophical, and tasawwuf matters. This promised to be a long post. Then I looked again and it dawned on me, I no longer saw three points, or three reasons, but only one, just One – Tawhid, Tawhid, Tawhid - for that is what the second two points also reveal themselves to be about at closer investigation, tawhid. If anyone is displaying signs of understanding tawhid then take a look at this photo of baby Sinan over at Abu Sinan’s blog.
This has happened to me before; I mean beginning what I thought was going to be a fairly long post only to be brought up short by a sudden realization. It happened when I started thinking about destiny and free will.
But why do I claim these three points to be groundbreaking? To address tawhid first, the Oneness of God has no qualifiers in Islam, there are no lesser gods, nor is there any division of the One into three. Further, from a Sufi understanding, the Unity of God means there is nothing other than God, all of creation can only exist and be within God for without God there is no existence. God simply Is, God created existence. Now if this all seems too far beyond human comprehension, it’s certainly beyond mine, then that is the point, God is beyond human comprehension. And yet He is certainly not beyond His own comprehension, this is the kernel of knowledge for although we cannot comprehend God with our normal faculties nevertheless we have a Heart, qalb, that is the organ of gnosis, the knowledge that is ‘given’, and the man or woman whose heart is pure can ‘see’ God, for it is He who sees, hears, tastes, through the true human being.
Allah subhanallah wa ta’ala sees His Reflection in the innermost being (sirr) of His friend (wali). This is said in the hadith qudsi which I cited in my previous post ‘Heart of Faith’ and one of the most often heard hadith qudsi of Sufi tradition is the following:

My servant 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

*See Tafakkur posts here for more on reflection, just scroll down to find the first post in the series.

Heart of Faith

2006-02-17T01:03:00.000Z

Heart of Faith

Jalal’uddin Rumi said that ‘the body is fundamental and necessary for the realization of the Divine Intention’. Existence in the physical realm is the path by which the individual attains union with the One. We need to learn how to ‘read’ the inner meaning of the forms, which are the signs of God, and in the physical world the human being is surely the highest of those signs. If there is no separation then there can be no longing for union and it is that longing that requires us to polish the mirror of our hearts so that when it is clear and pure it reflects the mercy of the One. As is said in one of the hadith qudsi (sacred hadith revealed to the Prophet Pbuh but not part of the Qur’an):

Neither the vastness of My earth, nor that of My heaven can contain me. Indeed it is the heart of the man of faith which can contain Me.

Expressions of Love on a Momentous Day

2006-02-13T17:14:00.000Z

Haiku 5
He shook violently
on his return from the cave.
She cloaked him with love.

When the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) returned home from the cave to which he often retreated, after receiving the first of the revelations, he was understandably shocked and fearful of what was happening to him. It was his wife Khadija to whom he turned for advice. After listening to his words she comforted him, questioned him, and then informed him that he was not a man possessed and crazy but truly a prophet. The love between Muhammad (pbuh) and Khadija was exemplary and one that I like to reflect on at this time of year when all the trappings of romance are commercially exploited and appear to have little to do with a sincere and abiding love.
To read more about the love of the Prophet (pbuh) and Khadija, click here for an article by Dr. Ahmed al-Kadi.

Is there a chasm between 'the Muslim World' and the West?

2006-02-11T12:27:00.000Z

Is there a chasm between ‘the Muslim world’ and the West?

Am I hearing right? As I sat at my laptop this morning I could hear the news coming from the television. A chasm has opened up between Islam and the West, it was claiming, a clash of civilizations, they pronounced. Now that is rubbish, very dangerous rubbish initiated by Samuel P. Huntingdon’s ‘Clash of Civilizations and the Re-making of World Order’ written in 1993. Read here for a review on the consequences of this theory.
I live in the West and I am a Muslim but where is the chasm inside me? Do the fault lines of this ‘clash’, as Huntingdon calls it, run right down the middle of me? Maybe my intestines are at war with my liver, or possibly my left foot is ashamed of my right foot, even, God forbid, my heart is in denial of its dependence on my lungs! Or is that vice versa? No culture, civilization, or religion is, or ever has been, an island. Muhammad Pbuh is reported to have said that we should seek knowledge wherever we find it and the exchange of knowledge is one way in which the peoples of the world are interdependent, effecting industry, philosophy, religion, even cuisine, worldwide. The gain that Europe accrued from the scholarship of medieval Al-Andalus in medicine, philosophy, and theology, paving the way for the Renaissance is an excellent illustration of this fact, but it has been said many times and the powers that be choose to ignore it because the ‘Clash of Civilizations’ theory appears to provide a good excuse for Islamophobia.

To return to my own situation, I am Muslim and I am in the West, I was born here and I grew up here. How can this be if there is supposedly a chasm between the two? Some well meaning people might say that I can act as a bridge; well no actually, I am not here to be walked across so that some can maintain that ‘not all Muslims are extreme’ while looking at me quizzically (and sometimes worse) and wondering what on earth attracted me to Islam. I and many others like me, both reverts and born Muslims, can stand as a paradox to the non-Muslims being swayed by the ‘chasm and clash’ syndrome. I am not a paradox to myself of course, embracing Islam was part of a natural and logical flow in my life, but I appear as such to non-Muslims and my hope is that their engagement with what seems to be a paradox can lead to a paradigm change in thinking so that the ‘them and us’ attitude dissolves into history and is recognized as the destructive and nonsensical paradigm of identity construction that it is.

In conclusion, what is then meant by ‘the Muslim world’ in Western discourse and news reports? It is spoken as if it where a place elsewhere and completely forgets that a country is the people who live in it, the people of England, the country of my birth, as in many other 'Western' countries, includes many Muslims, they are not 'other', they are English, or French, Danish, American, Australian etc. I would also like to approach this question from the perspective of the Muslim concept of the Dar al-Islam, which according to Muslim scholars is a place where you can practice Islam freely. Traditionally this is a geographical location where Islamic laws rule. This is changing. Islam is present all around the globe so what do we mean when we speak of the Dar al-Islam today? Is it not also the space within which every sincere Muslim moves and prays and acts? The space they create around themselves? Is the Dar al-Islam today more about the energy of surrender that is dependent on the sincerity of the heart and knows no territorial borders as it traverses the planet? Surely the only boundaries to the Dar al-Islam are ignorance and hypocrisy and they also traverse the globe. I am speaking here of the inner state of the individual that effects that persons behaviour and actions and contributes to the condition of the wider community, not of the proclaimed politics of the powerful. The Dar al-Islam therefore, as also the ‘Muslim world’, is anywhere and everywhere that the sincere Muslim sees that: ‘To God belong the East and the West; wherever you turn there is the Face of God’ Qur’an 2:115

Copyright Katherine Randall, Granada 2006

In Honour of the Prophet Salalahi wa Salaam

2006-02-09T23:51:00.000Z

The Islamic Artists Society is hosting a blogging carnival in honour of the Prophet Salalahi wa salaam on the 19th of February. For details on how to submit your creative work, whether poetry, stories, essays, paintings, go to Izzy Mo's site for more information.

An Abyssinian Story in Honour of the Prophet Pbuh

2006-02-09T16:32:00.000Z

An Abyssinian Story in Honour of Prophet Muhammad Pbuh

I, Asma’, wife of Ja’far Ibn Abu Talib, have found refuge in a land that is friendly to those of us who are Muslim, the ones who willingly surrender to the One God. Our Prophet, the Trustworthy, whose calling Khadija first recognized, has sent us here for our protection. My husband, harassed so unjustly by his family, has been appointed by Muhammad, peace and blessings upon him, to lead this small contingent of the most severely persecuted of our brothers and sisters. These are the people who have no recourse to powerful clan affiliations that would be embarrassed by the torture of one of their own members. So the unbelievers, more interested in the concerns of trade and the economic position of Makkah, target the least influential amongst us in the attempt to usurp the Prophet’s calling and refute the revelations that come upon him.

My husband is the cousin of Muhammad, the Trustworthy, and the brother of Ali Ibn Abu Talib. This is the second hijrah to Abyssinia and we are grateful for the kindness and wisdom of our host, the Negus. He is a Christian ruler but he is in great sympathy with our account of what has been revealed through our Prophet and he respects the revealed message concerning Maryam and her son, Isa.

In this land I feel safe from the dangers of falling into the hands of the Makkan elite, the worshippers of idols for personal gain. They argue that they simply follow the traditions of their parents before them and that we should do the same. They cannot envision change, nor do they desire to improve their ways if it inhibits their greed and their status. I cry for them, they are too blind to see what is before their eyes. An honest, trustworthy man, who brims over with kindness and generosity, stands before them, and they laugh at him and deride his words. More than this, they question the revelation that comes so powerfully through his lips from the One God, Allah ta’ala.
How I long to still be in the presence of the Prophet and to hear the revelations as they come! Maybe I am ungrateful. It is good for those of us who are here in Abyssinia for we are protected and it is important that the emerging ummah grow and not be crushed by its enemies. Nearly every day, Ja’far and I speak of Muhammad and recall our dearest memories of him and at night, in our dreams, we hear his voice telling us to abide and be patient for the mercy of God is always with us. So I go about my daily chores happy to be amongst people who have befriended us and I offer my prayers that my own people may one day enjoy the light that has come into our lives.

Copyright Katherine Randall, Granada 2006

Haiku 4

2006-02-08T17:20:00.000Z

Isa! The monk calls,
My eyes have seen the Prophet!
Tell Khadija fast!

Destiny and Freewill

2006-02-07T22:35:00.000Z

Thoughts on Destiny (Qadar) and Free Will (Ikhtiyar)

As I was falling asleep last night I began thinking about destiny and free will. I cannot remember what initiated these thoughts but almost as soon as I began reflecting on this perennial problem the Day of Alastu (yawm al-mithāq), as Sufis call the primordial covenant with Allah, came to my mind. It might be better if I said that it came into my heart because it appeared like an immediate answer and solution to all the arguments in favour of one or the other. In that moment before creation all our souls were given a choice when they were drawn forth from the loins of Adam and asked:

Alastu bi Rabbikum?'(Am I not your Lord?), to which they reply, 'Bala Shahidna' (Yes, it is so). Qur’an 7:172.

Is this not both destiny and freewill in those few, all embracing words? I just pray that I continue to remember that covenant deep within me until every moment of my life is guided by my destiny to return and my choice to travel willingly.

Prayer of Taif

2006-02-04T19:47:00.000Z

The following is the transcript of the jum’ah khutbah given by Luqman Ali. It is a very moving and, to my mind, appropriate comment on the reactions to the Danish cartoons. Brother Luqman has kindly given his permission for it to be posted here and I feel it would be good if others wish to post it also so it receives a wide reading. Luqman is also the artistic director of the Khayaal Theatre Company in Luton, England.

In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful

While many Muslims once again fall into the reactionary trap set for them and confirm the thesis of the offending cartoons by exploding in rage and violence, we would do well to reflect upon the Prophet's supplication in Taif. This is the dua he recited with shoes full of
blood, wounds all over his body and after having been insulted, ridiculed and abused by the people of Taif to whom he had taken recourse seeking a place of refuge. Moreover, this occurs after three years of suffering a boycott at the hands of the Quraysh as a result of which Muslims were reduced to eating grass and leaves off of trees.

The Prophet (s) as he walks out of Taif:

"O Allah! I complain to You of my weakness, my scarcity of resources and the humiliation I have been subjected to by the people. O Most Merciful of those who are merciful. O Lord of the weak and my Lord too. To whom have you entrusted me? To a distant person who receives me with hostility? Or to an enemy to whom you have granted authority over my affair? So long as You are not angry with me, I do not care. Your favour is of a more expansive relief to me. I seek refuge in the light of Your Face by which all darkness is dispelled and every affair of this world and the next is set right, lest Your anger or Your displeasure descend upon me. I desire Your pleasure and satisfaction until You are pleased. There is no power and no might except by You."

If those who claim to love the Prophet(s) so much that they are willing to infringe upon prophetic conduct with their blind rage and fury would reflect upon this prayer, it would be a guiding light for them and a clear instruction as to how a Muslim should respond to our
current situation. It is also the only salve by which troubled hearts and souls will find peace. It will not be found on pickets and demonstrations - not that these may not be useful in making clear our reverence for the sacred and the divine and our indignation at the injustice and double standards of the European press.

In my jum'ah khutbah today, I spoke on this prayer and while there were some whose hearts and eyes were cooled by it, it was obvious to me that there were many who were so caught up in anger that they could not hear.

For whom does the Prophet's saying: 'Islam is good character' mean anything anymore?

Are we to revert to pre-Islamic tribal norms of vengeance and retribution rather than see this as an opportunity to turn hearts by sharing the example of our beloved Prophet's centredness and compassion in the face of hate and enmity with those whose hearts are
open?

Are we to fall into the major sin of despair-fuelled violence rather than maintain hope as the Prophet (s) did when the angel of the mountains met him outside Ta'if following his supplication and offered to cause the mountains surrounding Taif to crumble over the
town and obliterate it to which the Prophet (s) replied: 'No, I hope that these people will one day come to worship only Allah and Him alone'?

Unless we have the centredness and the Allah-consciousness of the Prophet (s) by which every event whether favourable or unfavourable (in material terms) offers us the opportunity of strengthening our relationship with Allah, we will continue to be the victim of every ruse and ploy.

Rather than reacting with violence and rage we should intensify our work to share the beautiful and merciful message of the Deen especially now that the Prophet (s) is headline news. Let the Prophet's prayer of Taif be printed in European newspapers as the
example of his supreme magnanimity and patience.

Violence, death threats and fury only betray a lack of trust in the power and light of the sacred which is illustrated in the Prophet's experience in the garden outside Taif when persons who overheard his prayer were moved by it to come to Islam. Moreover, on the way back to Mecca after this experience, many jinn who happened to hear the Prophet's recitation of the Qur'an in his night prayer also came to Islam. And not long thereafter the Prophet (s) was conveyed on his night journey and ascent to heaven. Verily with difficulty comes ease.

Yet with the announcement by 'eminent' Muslim scholars of a 'Day of Outrage', I fear we have become nothing but saboteurs. Why not a Day of Remembrance of the Prophet, Why not a Day of Tremendous Prophetic Character? Why not a Day of the Prayer of Taif?

I recommend that we circulate the Prayer of Taif at this time as an antidote to all of the madness and poison of rage, violence and emotional maelstroms. May Allah guide us to that which is right and grant us the tremendous fortune of seeing our enemies as our close friends (see Qur’an 41:34-36) to whom we have the duty of conveying the reverence and love of Allah and his Prophet (s). Ameen.

Allah knows best.
Luqman Ali
03 February 2005

Haiku 3

2006-02-03T22:46:00.000Z

Mihrab of the heart!
Like a golden fish leaping
In Spirit and Word

Mirador

2006-02-03T21:17:00.000Z

Mirador
By
Katherine Randall

Maria stood on the Plaza in front of San Nicolas and looked across to the Alhambra. The view was dramatic with the River Darro running far below between the two hills on which San Nicolas and the Alhambra stood. She had walked up from the Plaza Nueva, through the Albaicin, to reach the Mirador, the view point which told so much of her own history and that of Granada.
Maria turned and gazed with affection at the portal of the San Nicolas Church that she had entered so often during her childhood. It was not her family’s local church, they lived in a small village just outside of Granada, but her grandmother lived in an apartment close to the old Arab quarter and when Maria stayed with her she would take her up the hill on one of the little Albaicin buses to visit the church and light a candle in front of the statue of the Virgin.
Initially Maria would resist visits to her grandmother. She did not like her parents leaving home for this or that business trip in promotion of their olive oil business. But as she grew a little older she longed for those visits. Abuela loved to spoil her vivacious little granddaughter with her favourite dish of migas and take her shopping for new clothes, like a flamenco dress, or soft, furry slippers in the shape of cuddly animals.
     ‘Come on, Maria. We are leaving Abuelo here to read his newspaper and drink his coffee while you and me go and do something exciting in town.’
‘I’ll be in the bar on the corner with my coffee, Maria Imaculada, you know that.’
     ‘Well, don’t stay there for too long, Jorge. I want a punctual lunch so that little Maria can sleep a little before we go up to San Nicolas.’
     ‘Candles for the Virgin again, eh! I’m sure the only reason you go up there so often is to stare across at the Alhambra with your head filled with all those romantic ideas of yours.’

Her memories of Abuela were precious and Maria was tempted to enter the church and light one last candle, but she desisted. She knew that if her grandmother could be here now that she would understand. The Virgin represented the prelude to this momentous day in Maria’s life and her grandmother had paved the way for her, it was in Abuela’s footsteps that she now followed, even though her grandmother could not have completed the journey in her lifetime; the law of the land had ruled against it.
Maria shared the same name with her mother and grandmother, it was a Spanish tradition, except the granddaughter had an additional name, that of Fatima. Abuela had pleaded for her to be named Maria Fatima, in honour of our Lady of Fatima, she had claimed.
     ‘It is not unusual for a Spanish woman to be called Fatima!’
‘But it is a Muslim name!’ exclaimed Maria’s father.
‘So what! It is also the name of the blessed town where our Virgin appeared to the shepherd children.’
Despite her father’s initial protests, he eventually relented under the insistence of his wife, ‘I think my mother has our ancestors in mind. She means no harm, and it’s in their honour. Besides, I used to have a friend in school called Fatima, it’s not that unusual. She became a nun,’ she argued.

Abuela died when Maria was in her early twenties and on her deathbed she had pulled Maria close to her and said, ‘Always light a candle for the Virgin on a Friday dear. It’s a family tradition. It’s in the name you know.’
     Looking now at the Alhambra, Maria smiled. ‘What did Abuela mean Mama? What about the name? Which name?’ It had taken Maria over a year to start questioning her mother.
     ‘Almudena,’ she stated one afternoon when they were chatting over coffee during the siesta, ‘Your surname that you inherited from me. It has been kept in the family for centuries and its origin practically forgotten until Abuela relentlessly questioned her grandmother.’
     ‘What about it then?’
     ‘It’s of Arab origin. It comes from ‘al-Madina’ meaning ‘the city’. Our ancestors were Muslims, Maria, until the Inquisition forced us to be baptised. But don’t worry yourself about it.’

Maria looked once again at the portal to San Nicolas, silently thanking Abuela, then she turned to her right and within a few paces she stood before another door. This was the entrance to the new mosque that had recently been completed. She entered and gazed at the mihrab, the niche which indicated the qibla, the direction of the Kaa’ba. Within that niche were verses from the Qur’an inscribed on its walls, verses that spoke of the Virgin and her son, and referred to her as ‘a mercy to the worlds.’
     ‘Our Lady, Prophet of peace, I am returning,’ Fatima spoke quietly.

Copyright Katherine Randall, Granada 2006

If you are interested in reading about the opening of the new mosque in Granada then follow this link, it includes some lovely photos of the view to the Alhambra from the mosque and the Mirador: http://www.qalamonline.com/archives/000511.html

The following link tells the true and very moving story of a Spanish woman of Jewish descent: http://www.olam.org/treasure.php?issue=5&id=180

Painted Puddles

2006-01-30T22:26:00.000Z

It's been raining a lot this week. That's good, we need it so much as we've had almost no rain for a year. The day before yesterday it snowed a couple of inches and then melted a few hours later when the sun shone through. The village rapidly transformed in to a series of small waterfalls as the water poured down the mountain and through the streets. As I trudged up the steep path from the plaza to my house this evening it looked as if someone had spilled paint all over the road, turqouise and flamingo pink, until I realized that the puddles were reflecting the evening sky and its colours perfectly!

Haiku 2

2006-01-30T16:39:00.000Z

Reflections of You
in the mirrors of winter:
My abode is love

Tafakkur Three: Thought and Reflection

2006-01-29T23:38:00.000Z

Tafakkur Three: Thought and Reflection
In his post on the ‘Qur’an as Classical Music’ Ali Eteraz says, ‘In other words, thought militates against “inner stillness.”’ It can, I agree with him completely, so what on earth am I talking about when I refer to reflection as a spiritual exercise. Beginning this series on tafakkur has become a challenge to investigate and comprehend more on the subject and I find several problems heading in my direction but also some fascinating resolutions that I will summarize later in my conclusion. First, an obvious question arises that demands attention: What is the difference between thought and reflection? While writing on tafakkur I have understood reflection to be something different to the noise of a busy mind. I have taken the translation of ‘tafakkur’ as ‘reflection’ from Professor James Morris in his translations of the work of Ibn ‘Arabi and I am happy to work with that as I have seen it translated likewise by other scholars.

If I understand the word ‘tafakkur’ as ‘reflection’ in English or ‘to reflect’ then I find it expedient to consider the definition of the word. Collins English Dictionary defines reflection as ‘careful or long consideration or thought’, and the definition of ‘to reflect’ as ‘to think, meditate, or ponder.’ So thinking is in there too, well it has to be doesn’t it? You could hardly reflect, or ponder, on anything without thoughts arising but is there a difference in the nature of thoughts, in other words is there such a thing as modes of thinking, just as there are various modes of knowledge according to the work of Sufi masters? It would make sense and the difference must be in the provenance of the thought. If I think about a problem and my mind becomes crowded with so many thoughts, half of which do not relate to the problem but are distractions, then my intention has no anchor and therefore no substantial trajectory; it dissipates in the noise of the mind or the imperatives of the moment. The origin of my thinking, in this case, is more likely to have been the lower nafs. However, if I reflect, as I understand it, then my intention is to open up to unthought possibilities and to receive the presence of the numinous that can speak to us because it is universally manifest, even within the thoughts we think. But of course it is veiled, and without kashf (unveiling) we can be oblivious to its presence because our soul is buried under the influence of a dominating mind. When this happens then we are not using the intellect as an instrument of our fitr (inherent spiritual nature) but are cowering under the arrogance and confusion of a faculty that is being allowed to step out of place. Ideally, the intellect should complement our fitr, be its servant. One of the ways this can be done is through reflection. This is how I understand tafakkur.

Now another question thrusts forward and I am not sure that it bears any linguistic relation to the Arabic ‘tafakkur’, it does, however, bear a direct relation, in mystical terms, to the fruits of tafakkur. This question relates to the other definition of ‘reflection’: How does the meaning that I have been using in my articles so far relate to its other usage, as in, a reflection in a mirror? Immediately the word ‘barzakh’ comes to mind. I am deferring here, back and forth from English to Arabic, take note Derrida! Now barzakh is a state that lies between two other states and contains characteristics of both, a liminal space if you will, and the reason that this word comes to mind when thinking of ‘reflection’ and ‘mirror’ is that Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi uses the example of a reflection in a mirror to elucidate what he means by the barzakh of the ‘alam al-khayal, or to say it in English as best I can (and no language can truly do justice to the Arabic of the Qur’an), the liminal space of the imaginal. Please bear with me, this is leading to my point, Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi points out that what you see when you look in a mirror is both yourself, and not yourself. Exactly the state in the barzakh, when the purely spiritual takes on form and the physical becomes ever changing as its inner state is exteriorized. Put more simply, this is the dwelling place of the soul. Now what occurs when the thinking person enters this space? I am suggesting the person is both thinking and not thinking because the activity of reflection, if successful, is a step in to the barzakh of the ‘alam al-khayal. A realm of being that is in itself a reflector of the inner state.

The conclusion I have reached, using ‘reflection’ rather than ‘thought’ as the translation of ‘tafakkur’ via Ibn ‘Arabi, and combining the two definitions of the word ‘reflection’ is that it is possible to arrive at a fresh perspective on the purpose of practising reflection. Moreover this semantic route takes me straight to the heart of the trajectory of the question posed by the Qur’an when it repeatedly asks whether we can see the wonders of creation, and if so then we should reflect on them, for they are all the Signs of God, ‘On the horizons and within the selves’. Humankind needs no further proof of the One for it is manifest around us, and within us. The entirety of creation, including ourselves reflects the reality of the Real as a mirror. Simultaneously we are required to reflect on that reality so our purpose as mirrors of the Real is more fully achieved. So for me the aim of reflecting on something is finally to be looking as if in a mirror, to see my own reflection, to see the mother who shouts at her child, she is me, so I learn not to judge harshly. Her child, yes that’s me too, so I stop shouting because I know how it feels. The husband who is too tired to go out, I see my face reflected in his, and understand. If I continue to see my reflection in the other then ultimately, Insh’allah, I ‘see’ the Creator for ‘Wherever you look there is the Face of God’, and suddenly there is no ‘other’, there is only the One.

The above represents my own reflections based on my reading and limited experience. I am grateful for any comments from those who have also addressed these themes.

Haiku 1

2006-01-29T22:44:00.000Z

Sit in the stillness
of a thousand reflections –
A blaze in your eye

Aya al-Astal

2006-01-29T02:36:00.000Z

Nine year old Aya was shot dead because she got too close to the border. Umm Yousef tells the story here. Some are saying that we will never know the true story of what happened but I say, let Aya stand for all the children who died that day. They died because there was no food for them to eat; they died from drinking dirty water; they died due to the lack of medical care; but, more than anything else, they died as the result of conflict. In the world today children are the only innocent ones, the rest of us are culpable to some extent. May walls, fences, borders, barriers of all kinds, become history one day but how can that happen until the biggest barriers of all begin to crumble, the barriers in our hearts and minds?

Convivencia

2006-01-27T00:46:00.000Z

Convivencia

Convivencia is a Spanish word that means living together. It is used to refer to the time in medieval Al-Andalus when the three Abrahamic monotheisms lived together peacefully and created the most sophisticated civilization in Europe at the time and paved the way for the Renaissance. The word is used again today as an expression of hope for what is possible. Try this link for an excellent and very informative article: http://www.saudiaramcoworld.com/issue/200305/granada.s.new.convivencia.htm

Taken Unaware

2006-01-25T16:45:00.000Z

The dark of night wraps around my form
in billows. Like my favourite jilbab, it leaves
pockets of warm air that caress my skin
and speak secrets to the stars.

But thoughts wander in a maze without end
and enter once more, unbid, bearing news
that wounds my peace with its indulgence
in the mere fluff of a dunya laughing loud.

Do I lack some special gift, bestowed
on few? A secret that the constellations
will not reveal? I beg a song to re-configure
the tragic meanderings from my journey’s route.

The sky responds inside my heart, the flash,
a supernova, dismisses the trash and leaves me
trembling. It stuns my nafs and my soul vibrates
with ‘Alastu bi Rabbikum!’ I surrender to this grace.

© Copyright Katherine Randall, Granada 2006 All Rights Reserved

Tafakkur Two: When to Practice

2006-01-23T14:31:00.000Z

Tafakkur Two: When to Practice
When is the best time to consciously practice tafakkur? I’m busy all day and it’s not as if I don’t reflect carefully on a lot of things while I’m writing, or cooking, or visiting friends. For example, as I made my way down the narrow and steeply inclined streets of the village yesterday I reflected on religion. I find it a problematic word because so much that is completely unrelated goes under its banner. I don’t mean the differences between religions, but rather the different attitudes and actions within any one religion, and this goes pretty much across the board of any religion; the literalists, and the dogmatists, the mystics, and the ascetics, the otherworldly, the life-embracing, the violent, the peaceful, and the downright wacky. Because religious institutions of various kinds have held enormous power and political clout, their pronouncements can be at times detrimental to large groups of society, and sometimes beneficial. I don’t feel that the Arabic word ‘deen’ translates very well as ‘religion’, for under the term religion we normally understand an organization, or institution, with a hierarchy and all sorts of rules and regulations. This is very much an area of human affairs and worldly matters. I decided to write about the difficulty of translating ‘deen’ in to English and to explore the meanings in that beautiful Arabic word. It is down on my list of themes to write about. It’s actually a problem that one of the characters in my novel-in-progress thinks about, so there you are, it is obviously a recurring theme for me that needs to be given more focussed attention. ‘Deen’, as I understand the word, is a spiritual reality that has immense consequences for our lives here and now. It is what determines us as travellers to the Real and reminds us that, whether willing or not, we are on a journey of return to the One.
Now to return to my original question: When is the best time to consciously practice tafakkur? I might even ask: Why set aside a special time when I can do it in situ as it were? First, as I read on Fethullah Gulen’s website (cited above) the Prophet Muhammad Pbuh, is reported to have said, ‘No act of worship is as meritorious as reflection (tafakkur)’ Second, distraction is a real danger unless I seek a quiet and private space to do my reflecting. There is nothing wrong with reflection ‘on the go’, it helps me keep close to what is good and to avoid destructive or unhelpful thoughts and emotions, and since the world, and my daily life, is full of the signs of the One this acts as a constant reminder of the journey we are all undertaking. However, if I want to achieve an inner stillness to deepen my reflections and become more receptive to ‘hearing’ any guidance then I believe the discipline of setting aside a specific time every day will assist in that purpose and also create an inner space that I can carry into my daily activities. In other words, practicing this form of spiritual exercise regularly will help to actualize any insights. Immediately I am flooded with concerns as to how I am to find extra time every day when the day never seems long enough as it is. Well there is always the option of getting up earlier, or going to bed later, or extending my lunch break a little, even if it is just twenty minutes. The next question is what am I going to reflect on? I’ll be recording my thoughts on that in my next post in this series.

The Spirit of Knowledge

2006-01-22T00:10:00.000Z

Here is another link I have just found on the subject of tafakkur. It is written by Fethullah Gulen and he emphasizes the importance of reflection in the scientific study of the world. There is no ‘contrived’ conflict between religion and science in Islam for the more we discover the more we know about God’s creation.
If you scroll down the page you will find the first of my planned articles on tafakkur which I will be supplementing with links like this one:

Tafakkur literally means to think on a subject deeply, systematically, and in great detail. In this context, it signifies reflection, which is the heart's lamp, the spirit's food, the spirit of knowledge, and the essence and light of the Islamic way of life …
http://en.fgulen.com/a.page/books/key.concepts.in.the.practice.of.sufism/a862.html

Reflect upon the wondrous skill ...

2006-01-21T21:49:00.000Z

I found the following poem on taffakur by Shaykh Muhammad Ibn al-Habib on Aisha Bewley’s site: http://ourworld.compuserve.com/homepages/ABewley/diw7.html

Tafakkur: A series of articles on the practice of reflection

2006-01-21T21:17:00.000Z

While thinking about the plight of the whale that has swum up the Thames and now, sadly, died,
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/22/international/22whale.html I was reminded that I wanted to write about tafakkur. What’s the connection? Well, the image of the whale led me to reflect on the Prophet Yunus (Jonah) and his three days in the belly of a whale, a metaphor for a time of complete withdrawal, almost death, before a transformation occurs in the soul. But it was the word ‘reflection’ that jolted my memory and led me to think of tafakkur, for that is the meaning of this word. What is Tafakkur? It is the practice of reflecting on anything, giving something due consideration. This can range from important life decisions to the meanings inherent in all creation. The Qur’an constantly reminds us that the entire universe is full of the signs of the Real if only we stop to think and reflect! For example in this verse of the Surah entitled ‘The House of Imran’ (Al-Imran)

3: 190 Verily, in the creation of the heavens and the earth, and in the succession of night and day, there are indeed messages for all who are endowed with insight, 3: 191 [and] who remember God when they stand, and when they sit, and when they lie down to sleep, and [thus] reflect on the creation of the heavens and the earth:
(Muhammad Asad translation)

In the Qur’an the word used for verse is itself ‘sign’ or ayat. We can reflect no matter what we are doing but I think it might also be a good idea to set aside time every day for reflection. It is a spiritual exercise in that we use our cognitive abilities together with an openness to be inspired and guided to an understanding of the Real within what may often seem obscure. This applies as much to the astrophysicist pondering the nature of gravity as to the mother of small children seeking the most appropriate school. There are many aspects to tafakkur, for example there is no point in reflecting in this manner if any insights gained find no application in our daily lives or the way we conduct ourselves. I plan to undertake a deeper study of tafakkur, insh’allah, and to develop this in to a series of articles. Many great Sufis have spoken of tafakkur and I’ll let you know what I find. So look out for the next instalment!

LAND IN SIGHT

2006-01-19T10:33:00.000Z

This picture is taken from the same viewpoint as the one of the ship in ‘Beyond’. It is a January sunset and suddenly, completely unexpected, the coastline of Morocco appears on the horizon, about 160km. distant. It is a rare sight and a stunning experience.

Velveteen Rabbi: Sufism: beyond the veil

2006-01-19T09:44:00.000Z

Follow this link to Velveteen Rabbi for a review of William Chittick's, Sufism: A Short Introduction, and the affinities that Rachel discovers between Islamic and Judaic mysticism
Velveteen Rabbi: Sufism: beyond the veil

The Synagogue in Cordoba

2006-01-18T11:56:00.000Z

This is a picture of the synagogue in Cordoba, built in 1350. It was built with the help of Jewish, Muslim, and Christian builders.

Hitzei Yehonatan: Shemot (Rambam)

2006-01-18T11:35:00.000Z

Hitzei Yehonatan: Shemot (Rambam)

"But none of them see their prophetic vision except in a dream, in a night vision, or during the day when deep sleep falls upon them"

This is a great article, a commentary on the Torah, that speaks of Maimonides, the most eminent mystic/philosopher of Judaism. Maimonides was a contemporary of Ibn Arabi and also lived and worked in Al-Andalus.There is a great deal in common between the Jewish and the Muslim mystical traditions emerging at this time (12th/13th Century CE) from medieval Al-Andalus (present day Andalucia).

Beyond

2006-01-17T10:03:00.000Z

You turned and pointed, and when I looked in the direction You were indicating I saw a vast horizon of which I was unaware before. We stood at a great height and from here the distant sea was visible with its sparkling reflections of light. On the shoreline I discerned a boat waiting to set sail. You waved your hand towards the boat, becoming impatient with my reluctance to leave. Finally I began the descent to the shore but as soon as I had taken a few steps, the forest, and brambles, and rocks, around the mountain gathered force against me and I slipped and became entangled in their relentless power of impediment. I stood once again and continued in my effort to reach that waiting vessel.

The ship floats on the surface of the water, content in the gentle rocking of the waves. I board the navigator of the ocean of being and discover it is You who are the sea, and its vastness, and the lands beyond.

Ibn Arabi and Jalal'uddin Rumi

2006-01-17T00:03:00.000Z

Ibn ‘Arabi and Jalal’uddin Rumi: Potential Giants of the Future

I read this article on Ibn ‘Arabi and Jalal’uddin Rumi a while back and have been trying to find it again ever since. I was successful last night. I found it in one of my many folders. I think the article from the Independent Weekly is so important because it describes how the whole world can benefit from the words of these two great medieval men of spiritual genius. As the author of the article, Godfrey Cheshire says, they could truly become giants of the future. Rumi is already the best read poet in the US, and Ibn ‘Arabi is gaining steadily in popularity as many dedicated scholars translate his work.

Beasts of Burden: Why our official culture isn’t sure it wants us to know about Ibn ‘Arabi and Rumi by Godfrey Cheshire, Independent Weekly
http://indyweek.com/durham/2001-10-31/ae2.html
When you have read the article you may want to go to this excellent site for more information
http://www.shunya.net/Text/Islam/MysticTide.htm

Light of Lights

2006-01-16T10:22:00.000Z

Looking Within

2006-01-15T23:28:00.000Z

Rumi is one of the greatest travellers on the journey of return to the One, the Real. I found this poem by Rumi. To me it says that the journey is not out there somewhere but deep within our selves. While the sincere sâlik (traveller) will look at all of creation as the signs of God to be read, for ‘God's is the place-of-Shining-forth and the place-of-Darkening: so wherever you all may turn, there is the Face of God!’ (Qur'an 2:115), she/he also knows that it is not necessary to go running around looking for God outside of ourselves for God is within.

There is a certain Love
that is formed out of
the elixir of the East.
There is a certain cloud,
impregnated with a
thousand lightnings.
There is my body,
in it an ocean formed of his glory,
all the creation,
all the universes,
all the galaxies,
are lost in it.

Trans. Shahram Shiva

Andalucian Village by Night

2006-01-14T21:00:00.000Z

Malcolm X

2006-01-14T20:33:00.000Z

This is a quote I found of Malcolm X. It describes very well the feeling of unity and equality felt by Muslims on hajj (pilgrimage) to Mecca.
"I have eaten from the same plate, drunk from the same glass while praying to the same God with fellow Muslims whose eyes were the bluest of blue, whose hair was the blondest of blond, and whose skin was the whitest of white. And in the words and in the actions and in the deeds of the 'white' Muslims, I felt the same sincerity that I felt among the black African Muslims of Nigeria, Sudan and Ghana."Malcolm X

Alhambra

2006-01-13T23:25:00.000Z

This is a view of Granada from the Alhambra. Below is an excerpt from my novel which is situated in Granada.

Miguel stared into his beer and decided he had had enough. He paid and left. Glad to be outside again, he began walking. It felt a lot cooler than earlier and as he looked up at the sky it was obvious that its wide open expanse, filled with numerous stars, was responsible for the sink in temperature. Miguel sought no particular direction, just a rather aimless, walking meditation. He followed his feet in the same fashion as he followed his meandering reflections. In this manner Miguel walked for over an hour. He came to the Albaicin, close to the Alhambra, and experienced a renewed sense of familiarity with this ancient quarter. How well he knew its history, its heyday, its upheavals, its persecution, but it was not Miguel the academic walking through these medieval streets right now; it was Miguel the lovelorn, caught up in a dilemma that defied analysis, which demanded courage and perspicacity. He felt at home in this place even though he knew it was considered unsafe at night. Its alleys and bazaars, the hamam and the residence of the local qadi, the small house where Morayma, wife of the last Ruler of the Kingdom of Granada spent her lonely exile from the Alhambra, all intermingled in his imagination with the aromas of exquisitely strong mint tea, simmering lamb and apricot tagines. He heard the sounds of women laughing and weeping; the recitation of the Qur’an from the madrassas; the call to prayer that for a short interval silenced the noises of the market and the business deals in the silk bazaar. Miguel looked across the river Darro to the Alhambra, just beyond its banks, and added the fierce arguments of politics to his imaginary collage of times past and times present. The sultan in counsel with his ministers, and again, listening to the petitions of his people; yet further, in the Serallo, the whisperings of diplomacy and the grief of betrayal and intrigue. Enemies at the gate ready to sack Granada.

Miguel decided to walk along the Corredera del Darro toward the Alhambra. He could not resist his present mood. This was not an historical stroll but an entirely ambient experience. He planned to walk past the terraced fountain and on to the path through the woods. He could then return to the Plaza Nueva, near the cathedral, via the road used by the Alhambra buses. Miguel had attended nighttime concerts in the court gardens before now. He and Paquita and two of her friends had seen an impressive flamenco display on her fourteenth birthday, but to be here on his own, the palace-fortress closed, precipitated his immersion in its intrinsic sadness. Like a secret it held for the night alone when there were few people around. A secret the Alhambra had held for five hundred and fourteen years. A secret that desired to be whispered in Miguel’s ear as much as it rustled through the leaves of its gardens, across its marble floors, and through its wooden lattice windows. Something beckoned Miguel and he could not quite discern its provenance.

Sierra Nevada

2006-01-13T21:00:00.000Z

In the distance you can see the peaks of the Sierra Nevada covered in snow

Above the Snowline in Spain

2006-01-13T20:48:00.000Z

Above the Snowline in Spain

I live in a mountain village eleven hundred meters above sea level. To the South I can see the Mediterranean, reminiscent of so many historical events important to the world. The countries that surround its waters have spawned the foundations of the three Abrahamic religions; the philosophical debates of Ancient Greece; great poets and musicians, and several stunning archaeological finds. The waves of the Mediterranean resound with the clashing swords of pirates, the prayers of pilgrims, and the distress of the shipwrecked. If I gaze across the sea at night I can make out the lights of tankers and cruise ships. The lights of towns on the coast sparkle like jewels on black velvet and the lighthouse beams its protective ray at regular intervals.

The view to the North is utterly different. The Sierra Nevada mountain range fills me with awe as I gaze at its majestic grace. At this time of year it is covered in snow which shines, luminescent, on nights of the full moon like tonight.

The mountain range on which I live runs between the Sierra Nevada and the coastline, for most of the winter we lie beneath the snowline but the past two years have been exceptional. Just two nights ago I was driving back from Granada, which lies behind the Sierra Nevada, when it began raining in torrents. This was really an occasion for joy as we are experiencing a drought at present, but driving up mountain roads when the rain is pouring off the sides, bringing down soil and stones, is not fun; especially when a small skid can take you over the edge to certain death.

Worse was to come as we drove higher and the rain became snow, and then even higher where the snow was settling fast and the bends become more frequent and difficult until finally the wheels of the car were spinning, no longer able to grip, and the car got stuck, luckily against the mountain side and not on the edge.

After fruitless attempts to clear the snow with nothing but our hands and feet, two men in a 4x4 stopped and helped. They pulled the car out and we began the descent back to the hotel-in-the-middle-of-nowhere that we had recently passed. Once safe, after a good meal and a hot drink, I went out to view the landscape. It was stunningly dramatic: mountains, cork oaks, all bearing their mantle of thick, white snow with dignity and inviting me to partake in their aura of shelter and wellbeing. As I gave thanks for our safety I was reminded of the words in the Quran that ‘over every soul there is a watcher.’

Islamic Feminism: A Contradiction in Terms?

2006-01-13T10:42:00.000Z

Islamic Feminism: A Contradiction in Terms?

Islamic Feminism would certainly appear to be a contradiction in terms, as would Jewish Feminism and Christian Feminism. However, a distinction needs to be made between the practice of many Muslims, which is blatantly misogynistic and often informed by patriarchal tendencies and non-Islamic traditional culture, and Islam itself as revealed in the Quran.

Muslim peoples are no different from any others worldwide in terms of the imbalance in gender relations in favour of the male, although historically there are many examples of an enlightened attitude among Muslims in this respect. An example would be the provision of a legal status to women and the rights of inheritance from the early 7th century Muslim community onwards. It took many more centuries before the equivalent was available to women in the West. Education is another point, it is the responsibility of every Muslim, man and woman, to seek knowledge and throughout history there have been many female scholars.

However, as I mentioned above, the daily reality for many Muslim women is very far indeed from the ideal equilibrium set out in the Quran. Some of the reasons for this are: 1) The tenacity of patriarchal modes of society (and tribal law in some areas); its values being so internalized that a clear view becomes difficult even for women. 2) The vast majority of theologians and interpreters of the Quran have been men, and they have tended to interpret in their favour, often being too literalist and ignoring the subtle layers of meaning within the Quran and the Arabic language itself, Jalaluddin Rumi and Ibn 'Arabi being notable exceptions. This is now changing as ever more women are acquiring the skills necessary for interpretation. These women (Amina Wadud for example) are calling for a change in traditional gender relations by referring to the Quran; they are working from within without the need to refer to Western feminism.

It is my belief that Western feminism could benefit from a dialogue with Islamic feminism. What is especially interesting is that the Quran recognizes the differences between male and female and their respective rights and responsibilities toward each other. Now, male biased interpretations might take this as an excuse to control women and their activities and thereby underpin patriarchal values, this is far from the intention of the Quran which is in fact very close to the Postfeminist theory of the Western academy which wishes to distance itself from the sixties brand of feminism that would claim ‘women can do anything that men can do’ which in the opinion of some represents a total capitulation to patriarchy, e.g. along the lines of ‘men are so wonderful let’s all try and be like them’. There is no ‘battle of the sexes’ in Islam, on the contrary, the Quran tells us that men and women are as cloaks for each other, to protect and support each other.

Unfortunately, media coverage of Islam and Muslims is very biased in favour of the negative, and any non-Muslim may get a completely incorrect picture of Islam, the Taliban for example have nothing to do with Islamic values and the majority of Muslims are horrified by their actions in respect to women. So, both non-Muslims and Muslims themselves have a lot to learn in terms of gender relations and the Quranic teachings on such. I do believe that this is a universal discussion as only true equilibrium between the sexes can free our creative and intellectual potential to focus on the myriad of problems that we need to be addressing in the contemporary world.

I would like to add a comment on the word ‘feminism’, since it suggests something other than equilibrium I am at present in search of an alternative term that expresses the meaning ‘balanced gender relations’.

The End of Days

2006-01-13T01:47:00.000Z

The End of Days
By
Katherine Randall

When my Beloved rises at night to the moon, he leaves no footprints, but he comes away covered in dust. You can see it as sparks in the sky as he makes his descent. He once lived on the moon, alone and filled with longing for his love. His love abounded as roses of Attar and he returns every night to be with the all-permeating scent of her for whom he yearns.

I look at the moon from the safety of my kitchen. I look at the moon through the closed window, above the pots and the pans and the chipped mugs. I say to myself I am a coward if I never dare climb the clouds to the moon. The luminous sphere has turned a blood red and the peoples of Earth are talking of a final catastrophe.

Far from here another woman stands on the roof of her mud, sun-baked dwelling and sees the moon splitting in two above the Mountain of Light. She takes up her flute when she sees this miracle of the moon. The song wails across the dunes, it echoes the wailing of a distressed child. The wailing ceases. The flute lays half buried in the sand, ploughing through its sunken heat. The woman looks at the moon and then joins the gathering of those sitting tightly around the last of days.

My Beloved whispers in my ear. We mount my white horse and it neighs and pounds against the crispness of dead leaves on the old oak. They fall and shatter the cracking earth with tiny, sharp, wounds. I give thanks for the damp and clammy smells of the animal beneath us. My beloved reigns in the horse and we ride towards the dying of the western sun. Just a few moments suffice to suffuse us with the last drops of an ancient blood and I taste its sweetness.

We pass the half hidden flute and I stretch down and draw it from the sand. Its tired tones of exile and longing announce our passing through the dunes. As we come upon the gathering our pace diminishes and the woman of the flute calls to us, ‘Keep going. We know your story of love and the yearning for union, but take him with you’. She holds up a child and I recognize him as the child who the flute had calmed. We take the child and bid farewell and gallop at breakneck speed. Winged and roseate we gallop to the slit in the horizon where the sun will rise on its own sweet death.

2006-01-12T22:23:00.000Z

Today I begin to share my moments of reflection with all those who wish to read this page. This is a specific practice called 'tafakkur' on the path to knowing oneself. This kind of reflection requires the practitioner to look both within themselves as well as at the entirety of the world around them. Life is a text to be read and literacy is my aim for the diversity of signs that arise from the Real are infinite.