No words for this
Yesterday evening, anatketani and I went to see Coleman Barks ( http://www.colemanbarks.com ) reading his translations of Rumi and other Sufi poets (including himself) with Eugene Friesen (world renowned cellist see www.celloman.com) I am still, now, trying to contain all the Life Force the experience generated. I felt we were swimming in such deep waters. Words can't adequately describe it. It will have to suffice to say that I wept from the moment Barks cleared his throat upon approaching the podium until the moment he bowed, hands clasped in front of his chin, saying "Namaste" at the end.
( Weeping, for me, is a Sign of Power, of truth, beauty and ecstasy. It's how Power moves through me. Try getting used to that as a way of Being Power in a culture that views tears as weakness and inability to control oneself!)
It's not just the words he's translated, or the fact that he's done so specifically so they can be heard (and their hidden meanings perceived) by the American ear, but his voice as it sings forth those words. Resonant, sensual, the accent of the deep south bridging/healing the barriers and old scars between North and South. The accent is familiar, homey--making the message of the poem/prayers more accessible, less "academic" or "lofty." I think this is why he is so beloved. He gives us these gifts in a way we don't have to work too hard to comprehend. This poet speaks the language of the commoner.
I could barely catch my breath. Friesen's masterful cello stunningly punctuating luxuriant poetry. The word "gorgeous" comes to mind--to gorge. And yes, we gorged upon Beauty. We were awash, the entire theater immersed in the sacred which welled up from inside us and filled the space to the rafters. For two hours I felt the reality of being God with a body floating within me . . . and profound gratitude for my body and my ability to feel this overwhelming emotion, the discomfort of having to remain seated in the theater rather than thrashing/rocking/spinning/ as all people everywhere do in ecstatic prayer; the heart opening and it's energy rising up and out, through the tear-ducts; the deep deep sighing of the body; rapture.
I am trying to hold that as I awaken to this new day. I wrap the beautiful shawl I wore last night around my shoulders--this garment drenched and consecrated in tears borne of ecstasy has become a Prayer Shawl in the truest sense of the word. I listen to Friesen's CD, his cello playing loud and carrying the whole household on the wings of the Dove. My children come running and ask 'What is that?" Their eyes reflect my own wonder. What is this.
I want more of this. This ecstasy. These tears. This beauty that rends me speechless. This recognition of what We are doing here in this place. And even as I write these words, I can only return to the words that introduced me to Barks' translations some years ago. I was experiencing the excuciating pain of having lost who I thought was the love of my life. A friend brought me a CD and sat me down to listen to it. "Just listen," she said. When it began, I was literally tied in knots--shoulders up around my ears, arms tightly held across my chest, kness pulled up to guard my belly, shallow breaths and pinched jaw. Ninety minutes later I was sprawled out, lying prone, spread like the Star I am, on the floor. My chest open and breathing, my face and hair drenched in salt tears of relief at the acknowledgement that I would not only survive but thrive. The name of the CD and the demand within me this morning are the same:
I Want Burning.