Hafiz, (the great poet of Persia centuries ago), you know, got into his spiritual glory of writing amazing spiritual poetry after a very horrendous battle with loving a woman who did not love him. True story. He was madly in love with, we are told, a ‘very beautiful’ woman who didn’t really know he existed at all. He was considered an ugly man by the standards of what was considered handsome at that time and in that culture, and knowledge of that made it hard for him to believe it would ever be possible to win the heart of the woman he adored.
But he stayed hopeful, and being a believer in Divine Benevolence, prayed for help so he could be this woman’s husband. His love for the woman was so acute, he decided he would sit in one spot, draw a circle around himself, and stay there until God granted his wish. As the story goes, he stayed in that circle for quite some time, days, maybe weeks, that’s unclear… but it was a long time, we are told. One can assume he was indeed willfully intent on his prayer being answered with such an act of determination.
That determination must have triggered something…for…at some point it became clear to him that the One he really wanted was not the woman at all. It was not her beauty he wanted. He wanted Love itself, he wanted the One who made Beauty. And, of course, he came to understand what real Beauty was — and from this rare state, he wrote the poetry we have today that inspires so many of us, connects so many of us — at least a little — to what gave him such bliss.
This geo dome I had built was dedicated to him on the day it was finished. True. Didn’t tell anyone that. Didn’t even know exactly why I felt like dedicating it to Hafiz, the great ecstatic poet. But while it was being finished, Hafiz’ story, that I had read a long time ago, came into my mind in great detail.
We say in sufism, in Islam, Ya-Hafiz, when we wish to remember something, and we put our little fingers in our ears — symbolic, perhaps, or deeper than that. We name the ones who know the Qu’ran by memory a ‘hafiz’. The name is about remembering, re-membering. Hafiz remembered Allah aka Divine Whatever, and Allah granted his wish well beyond what he thought he wanted.
Although I didn’t know it then, the circle I had drawn for others — the dome — was actually meant for me to sit inside. And to sit there for a long time.
The efforts I initially put into making Healing The Zebra a place for teachers and students to come together in the spirit of healing, through the arts, for a body-mind-spirit wholistic/holistic way of living, was what I thought I wanted. What I thought I was meant to do. I put tremendous energy, and so very much money, all I had, into making the ‘center’ work. Yes, the housing situation in America changed things for me, anyway, for now the property I owned was worth half of what it was once worth, and as far as I could tell, I was now quite in the middle of a financial no-win situation. I had great trouble getting contract ‘corporate’ work; basically, none for about a year. I wasn’t alone in that dry job market, but, God, I was now committed to finishing building this dome. It had to be finished, I knew that. But my determination, my dream of decades (truly), was now being transformed before my eyes into something I did not expect, nor, apparently, had any control over whatsoever.
For so many years I kept a ‘corporate’ job — nothing as high-profile as a publicist, for I abandoned that world long ago, and chose to be essentially an admin, hiding my true nature — just (and only for this reason) so I could see people evenings and weekends and do some ‘expressive arts therapy’ with them. To put most of my energy into them, and into my sufi practice, and not into the day job. If the ones who came to me gave me money, ok. If not, ok. Sometimes I just knew not to take any money, even if offered, even if I knew the person had wealth. Of course, when I couldn’t get income from a day job, that changed, and I actually asked for a set fee and set out a ‘shingle’ for my ‘personal practice.’ That was a mistake, but I didn’t know it then. Now I do.
But this ‘center’…. Now it definitely was going to have to be all about money, as well as spirit, if it was going to work. The teachers needed money. The students needed money. They were affected by the economy, too. Some had lost their ‘day job’. Some had lost their home as well. One was living out of her car — and she was an excellent yoga instructor. Our first meeting together — all the instructors and myself — in the finished and beautiful, and very empty, dome, became all about money. And that was because of me, not them. My mind, you see, was now absorbed by how to make the center work financially, meanwhile facing losing my property completely, dome and house.
I almost went crazy with depression — my great demon all of my life — and came extremely close to killing myself. That is true. I hated being dependent on my sufi group. Being responsible, standing on my own feet, was always of utmost primary importance in all of my adult life. I felt like, yes, a ‘failure’. It was a bizarre thing to experience, such dependency, and facing the word ‘failure’ I felt was now stamped on my forehead, but that final touch to bottom has been waking me up in the most astounding way.
I moved from the house into the dome, and rented out the house, because I was now like so many other Americans in 2009. I had to file bankrupty, for to finish the dome construction had meant borrowing money. I believed my day job would come soon, I’d be able to move back into the house, and the ‘center’ would still manifest. I didn’t think the economic situation would sidetrack my dreams for very long. But it did, and I had to face it, and go deeper into what was happening — not only to me but to so many others, and in the world as well, for many, many changes were taking place, some quite drastic and heart-rending.
The property was graciously bought by my sufi group. Such is the bounty of being a believer — for that would not have happened if Divine Mercy had not willed it. This act of compassion from my group, from my sheikh, my spiritual teacher, allowed me to use the dome as I needed with the house rented out (and rented out for just the right amount of money to cover all costs for the sufi group).
Amazing. Remarkable. I have been blown away by this generous act of others alone.
But, of course, I still needed income now, though the bankruptcy was behind me and I was clear of debt, and a finished dome — which was now my home, and not exactly a ‘center for the arts’. I started to clear out as much as possible of the ‘things’ in my life. I certainly didn’t need a house full of furniture anymore. It wouldn’t fit in the dome, for one, but I also just didn’t need it. I realized I had become a ‘hoarder’ of sorts: a lot of accumulation, and crazy thinking that somehow I was going to use all that stuff for the center. I actually believed that. At another time, with a stronger economy,
maybe the plan would have worked. It didn’t matter now. Now I was in a new life, and I had to find out what it was.
The way I prayed changed. How I dressed changed. My relationship with nature changed. I took on things I hadn’t done in decades, like drinking wine. There was clearly growth, I could feel it in me, my soul coming to my rescue, but I didn’t understand why I would suddenly start drinking wine. It seemed counter-productive to my spiritual intentions. But. I found myself writing — a lot, and, frankly, the wine helped me to relax enough to write far deeper than I had before. I discovered ‘relaxing’ was something I really didn’t know how to do. Not really. Despite years of meditation, zikr, prayers, bodywork. To drop into a place where I could actually speak my truth, speak my experience, from a very raw place, being truly myself without entertaining others with my false persona of ‘performer’, meant drinking. Why? I wondered. I knew that it would change if I just kept working on myself. If I got a job, I thought, this would surely change, but no job was there.
Then my brother died. I discovered horrible things had happened to him in the last three years, far worse than me. I adored my brother and I was shocked at how much pain he had been in, without telling me, without my knowing. We were quite alike in our insistence to be independent, not to ask for help. To do it on our own. But in the end, we had needed each other, and we didn’t know it. I cried quite a lot. That’s when I understood the drinking — for that had been his way for many years. He died, and his spirit came to me — you don’t have to believe me, but it did — and there were many conversations, both with and without wine. A lot of writing. A lot of revelations about who he was, who I was, our family, our ancestors. So many things — so many! — began to make sense. I understood myself far better now, and my blood family — but now I was quite alone in that blood family.
But the strangest part of all was that his death gave me an inheritance of ‘things’, as well as some complicated ‘projects’ surrounding his death which I now needed to solve and unravel, and I knew I was the only one to do the unraveling. For months I lived in his home, working through a mountain of issues, both my own, and his, too, by proxy, I suppose you could say. I was overwhelmed, and alone, but I stuck with it. I was grateful for bringing my cat with me.
His death now opened a completely different road. Money, it occurred to me, comes when you need it, not when you want it, if you are willing to trust a larger Process. I am starting to relax, a little, and surrender into His Embrace. I do not need to be ‘independent’ from Him, for that is hell.
I returned to my dome in Redwood City in early 2011, with whatever I was unable to sell or give away, or knew I could not give away, and yet another dramatic, yet so blessed, cavern of darkness was before me. Legal ones, for my brother’s affairs. Financial ones – his. Deciding how to best handle the legacy of his phenomenal work in the world of dance.
But I remembered Hafiz. His story. Inshallah, this circle drawn around me now will open my eyes that much more, and perhaps my real dream, of Oneness with Him, will come true, and I will never be in any other state than unity with Him. That is the dream of the soul. Now I know who really needs to be listened to: my own soul, and it’s crying out for its Creator, its true Home.
My brother’s gift to me — was his very life. No greater love…. No greater sacrifice…. So now I dedicate what I write to my brother’s memory, in a place that is dedicated to Hafiz.
Remember Hafiz’ story.
It’s not important if you remember mine, or even my brother’s.
Art? Oh, it is a way. But there are many ways. It’s best, I believe, to let the ways pick you, and not the other way around.
