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Muhammad and the Huge Eater
By Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi
Translated by Coleman Barks
Excerpt from "Delicious Laughter, Rambunctious Teaching Stories from the Mathnawi" by Coleman Barks. 1990 Paypop Books, 196 Westview Drive, Athens, GA 30606.
(Note: Husam was Rumi's much loved assistant. Rumi teases him.)
Husam demands that we
begin Book V.
Ziya-Haqq, the Radiance of Truth,
Husamuddin,
Master to the Pure Masters,
if my human throat were not
so narrow,
I would praise you as you should be praised,
in some
language other than this word-language,
but a domestic fowl is not a
falcon.
We must mix the varnish we have
and br /ush it on.
I'm not talking to materialists. When I mention Husam,
I speak only
to those who know spiritual secrets.
Praise is simply drawing back the
curtains
to let his qualities in.
The Sun,
of course,
remains apart
from what I say.
What the sayer of Praise is really praising is himself, by saying implicitly, "My eyes are clear."
Likewise, someone who criticizes is criticizing
himself, saying
implicitly, "I can't see very well
with my eyes so inflamed."
Don't ever feel sorry for someone
who wants to be the Sun, that
other Sun,
the One that makes rotten things fresh.
And don't ever envy someone
who wants to be this world.
Husam is the Sun I mean.
He can't be understood with the mind, or
said,
but we'll stumble and stagger trying to.
Just because you
can't drink all that falls
doesn't mean you give up taking sips
of
rain water. If the nut
of the mystery can't be held,
at least let me
touch the shell.
Husam, refresh my words, your words.
My words are only a husk to
your knowing,
an earth-atmosphere to your enormous spaces.
What I say is meant only to point to that, to You,
so that whoever
ever hears these words will not grieve
that they never had a chance to
look.
Your Presence draws me out from vanity
and imagination and opinion.
Awe is the salve
that will heal our eyes.
And keen, constant listening.
Stay out in the open like a date
palm
lifting its arms. Don't bore mouse-holes
in the ground, arguing
inside some
doctrinal labyrinth.
That intellectual warp and woof keeps you wrapped
in blindness. And
four other characteristics
keep you from loving. The Qur'an calls
them
four birds. Say Bismillah, and chop the heads
off those
mischief birds.
The rooster of lust, the peacock of wanting
to be famous, the crow
of ownership, and the duck
of urgency, kill them and revive them
in
another form, changed and harmless.
There is a duck inside you.
Her bill is never still, searching
through dry
and wet alike, like the robber in an empty
house
cramming objects in his sack, pearls, chickpeas,
anything.
Always thinking, "There's no time!
I won't get another chance!"
A True Person is more calm and deliberate.
He or she doesn't worry
about interruptions.
But that duck is so afraid of missing out
that it's lost all
generosity, and frighteningly expanded
its capacity to take in food.
A large group of unbelievers
once came to see Muhammad,
knowing
he would feed them.
Muhammad told his Friends,
"Divide these guests among you and tend
to them.
Since you are all filled with me,
it will be as though I am
the host."
Each Friend of Muhammad chose a guest,
but there was one huge person
left behind.
he sat in the entrance of the mosque
like thick dregs
in a cup.
So Muhammad invited the man to his own household,
where the enormous
son of a Ghuzz Turk ate everything,
the milk of seven goats and enough
food
for eighteen people!
The others in the house were furious.
When the man went to bed, the
maid slammed the door
behind him and chained it shut, out of
meanness
and resentment. Around midnight, the man
felt several
strong urges at once.
But the door! He works it
puts a blade through the crack.
Nothing.
The urgency increases. The room contracts.
He falls back
into a confused sleep and dreams
of a desolate place, since he himself
is
such a desolate place.
So, dreaming he's by himself,
he squeezes out a huge amount,
and
another huge amount.
But he soon becomes conscious enough
to know that the covers he
gathers around him
are full of shit. He shakes with spasms of the
shame
that usually keeps men from doing such things.
He thinks, "My sleep is worse than my being awake.
The waking is
just full of food.
My sleep is all this."
Now he's crying, bitterly embarrassed,
Waiting for dawn and the
noise of the door opening,
hoping that somehow he can get
out
without anyone seeing him as he is.
I'll shorten it. The door opens. He's saved.
Muhammad comes at dawn.
He opens the door
and becomes invisible so the man won't feel
ashamed,
so he can escape and wash himself
and not have to face the
door-opener.
Someone completely absorbed in Allah like Muhammad
can do this.
Muhammad had seen all that went on
in the night, but he held back from
letting the man out,
until all happened as it needed to happen.
Many actions which seem cruel
are from a deep Friendship.
Many
demolitions are actually renovations.
Later, a meddlesome servant
br /ought Muhammad the
bedclothes.
"Look what your guest has done!"
Muhammad smiles, himself a mercy given to all beings,
"br /ing me a
bucket of water."
Everyone jumps up, "No! Let us do this.
We live to serve you, and
this is the kind of hand-work
we can do. Yours is the inner
heart-work."
"I know that, but this is an extraordinary occasion."
A Voice inside him is saying, "There is great wisdom
in washing
these bedclothes. Wash them."
Meanwhile, the man who soiled the covers and fled
is returning to
Muhammad's house. He has left behind
an amulet that he always carried.
He enters and sees the Hands of God
washing his incredibly dirty
linen.
He forgets the amulet. A great love suddenly enters him.
He tears
his shirt open. He strikes his head
against the wall and the door.
Blood
pours from his nose.
People come from other parts of the house.
He's shrieking, "Stay
away!"
He hits his head, "I have no understanding!"
He prostrates
himself before Muhammad.
You are the Whole. I am a despicable
tiny,
meaningless piece. I can't look at You."
He's quiet and
quivering with remorse.
Muhammad bends over and holds him and caresses him
and opens his
inner knowing.
The cloud weeps, and then the garden sprouts.
The baby cries, and
the mother's milk flows.
The Nurse of Creation has said, Let them cry a
lot.
This rain-weeping and sun-burning twine together
to make us grow.
Keep your intelligence white-hot
and your grief glistening, so your
life will stay fresh.
Cry easily like a little child.
Let body-needs dwindle and soul-decisions increase.
Diminish what
you give your physical self.
Your spiritual eye will begin to open.
When the body empties and stays empty,
God fills it with musk and
mother-of pearl.
That way a man gives his dung and gets purity.
Listen to the Prophets, not to some adolescent boy.
The foundation
and the walls of the spiritual life
are made of self denials and
disciplines.
Stay with Friends who support you in these.
Talk with them about
sacred texts,
and how you're doing, and how they're doing,
and keep
your practices together.
- Mathnawi, V, 1-149, 163, 167
