Rumi’s tomb. Crowds and noise and “gimme” energy. Gimme this, gimme that. But there’s a devotion in the people that softens and warms the field. There’s a golden-light calm radiance that fills the place. I find a quiet spot to do spiritual exercises and find that this is no ordinary temple. It’s got the juice. It’s a break in the clouds with the golden light coming down through.
I call Rumi the St. Francis of Islam. Just when it seems like the outer institution is at its height, someone comes from out of nowhere to show the way back in to the heart. John talks very briefly and then invites us to explore the place. It seems to me that’s because the Light is already here in all its brilliance, waiting to be asked to dance.
There’s still an “Asian” feel here so it’s not my path, but I can enjoy and learn from what it offers. I’m not sure how to describe that “Asian” feel except that eventually there’s something oppressive about the calm, and I don’t want to stay forever. I want to go where there’s ice cream and where God is a baby, where there’s no distinction between inner and outer, where the Light doesn’t come down because it’s already saturating everything in a loud and blinding mess that fulfills everything from the smallest desire to the most mysterious laws of the universe.
I’m not saying that Rumi wasn’t all of this, but the Light floods an era to the extent that’s allowed and required by the group consciousness, and after the flood recedes the culture of that era and the beings who rule over it are re-empowered to some extent.
I go back to the air conditioned bus as a calmer, fuller human. It feels like the energy here will suffuse my spiritual exercises in the future and there may be more gifts that will be unwrapped. But for now it’s time for checking into the hotel for a light dinner of some kind of baby food—probably cheesecake.
