READING RUMI

I have been reading Rumi

for the pleasure I can get from him

Like I enjoy a beautiful countryside

or eat a delicious meal

In exquisite descriptions of the play of life

in turns of phrase and use of image

wonder awakens in me and I am satisfied

I am reminded of experiences I’ve had or may yet have

of pleasures I once enjoyed and perhaps may still attain

When reading Rumi

I journey to exotic gardens of pleasure

I sit at the edge of the stage of desire and

taste exquisite beauty

I once watched a young erotic gorgeous dancer

showing her swoon of aahh  

taking all the attention my mind could give

Absorbing the consideration of anything else

as if she was a vision of the Divine

Now

after many dances

romantic trysts

and exquisite dinners

After beautiful sunsets and walks

fascinating books and discussions

lovely poems, great movies

and many occasions

of sweet and passionate lovemaking

It seems that

each and every one of these experiences has

left me some touch of suffering

I recognize

a feeling of failure within

Perhaps that is why,

when I now read Rumi

I hear him talking of sacrifice of self

He is not suggesting pleasure or glorification

It is embarrassing

but

I went to Rumi as a fish might go looking for water

All my life, I have been seeking pleasure

and

Avoiding sacrifice

I do not want to look at inevitable death or old age

I try to avoid that

or at least the implications of it

and

all the implications clearly state

that I must change my life

I can no longer read Rumi for the beauty of his poetry only

I can no longer read him for his exquisite insights

that fascinate my mind with turn of phrase

I remember the gorgeous stripper dancing on the stage

showing her luscious, wondrous naked beauty from this side and that

riveting my attention

with the sinuous sway of her hips and thighs

gestures of arms and feet

and revelations of breasts

With this there is not a single thing that is 'wrong'

But

Rumi does not sing of a

life purposed to its own display

He is speaking of Reality

Talking of what IS

altogether

more than what my vision can see

or ear can hear

More that what all my senses

have ever told me of . . .

It seems

I must read Rumi for what he cannot say

for what he has thrown away

I must read Rumi for what his teacher Shams told him

I must read Rumi for what he sacrificed into the fire of life

I must read him to remember that he gave everything up

like a rich man gives up poverty

not because he has renounced it

but because he is now wealthy

I must never forget that Rumi lost himself

in the greatest wealth of all

I must read him and listen for the terrible mystery

that gave him birth and then took away his life

The same mystery that

will destroy each of us and everything one day

Like Rumi, I eat the same food of this life

but

I do not digest what he digests

I must fast to read Rumi

I must develop a great hunger to hear what he is speaking of

I must have a terrible yearning for nourishment

Otherwise, I eat only Rumi’s shit

what he has left behind in mere words

and think and feel it is tasty and good

Like this

I am merely entertained

and made comfortable

not radiant

The words of Rumi are manure

for my poor metaphored garden 

I am a person

who has not yet done the work of awakening

I am a garden that in  a distant, not-now future

may bring forth real flowers

that are now only thought about

remembered and romanticized

I have read enough Rumi,

That when his lines and verse spill down the slopes of my mind

and pour out into  the feeling lake of my hearing heart

I suspect the terrible truth:

Divine Beauty is in 'me'

As a drop is in the ocean

This 'me' is not

a ‘me’ I know or ever can

but

Only Be Come

Through sacrifice of everything

I am

Could it be that

What we are looking for

does not dwell in her beautiful breasts

or in her sweet and charming voice

It does not dwell in the luscious curve of her ass

or the beautiful flowing rivers of her legs?

No

I believe

It dwells there too

I must turn away from nothing

What Rumi says of what is and who I am

is simply not my experience

I have not gained his treasure

So

He shares with me only words and images

romance and passion

As if that young girl came down off the stage

looked deeply into my eyes

and

said that she will love me forever and ever

That her heart will be mine for all that time

That we will never age or argue

That we will never get sick

And everything will not be ripped from us

before we have finished our blissful, blessed marriage

I apologize

but that is how I have been reading Rumi

and all the other Realizers, Scriptures and Truths of what is truly Great

I have not been serious

I have used them as distractions

from my own living sacrifice

the sacrifice of all

that ‘I’ has and wants and is

I have made a cheap movie out of him

I pray

that

One day,  I won’t read Rumi for the cheap thrill of sex alone

for the heart thrill of romance

with the ideals of minds objects

I will read him with the sweat of my own real desperate spiritual yearning

the taste of my own saliva

Or Maybe

I won’t read him at all

return to Peter