! A Sufi Life

Pen in hand, and pensive… sitting by the open window, the curtains moving gently in the breeze, listening to the spontaneous liveliness of the fountain whose joyful drops the sunlight plays with as they fall; catching the scent of a rose which comes and goes to the nostrils as if it has its own intentions; watching the sunlight moving round the courtyard garden; remembering with an inward stirring, it’s the earth which moves… words passing through the mind; in this golden stillness, all things are a metaphor for all else; it’s beyond the tender tying into lines of poetry; just a light touch, these words; nothing to prove; no-one to convince; more like a hand unfolded towards life, an acknowledgement; as when you join the dervishes in turning, and as the mind-free centre grows more strong, more established (for this centre holds) , the thoughts spin off… the poem too, spins off: one arm upward which remembers, palm open to receive in wonder; one arm outward, palm open, offering all to all; take it, while it’s warm with life.