Forty Rules of Love(20)

“I got your message, honey. Listen, I’m so sorry. I want to apologize to you.”

There was a pause, brief but charged. “That’s all right, Mom.”

“No, it’s not. I should have shown more respect for your feelings.”

“Let’s leave it all behind, shall we?” said Jeannette, as though she were the mother and Ella her rebellious daughter.

“Yes, dear.”

Now Jeannette dropped her voice to a confidential mumble, as if afraid of what she was going to ask next. “What you said the other day kind of worried me. I mean, is that true? Are you really unhappy?”

“Of course not,” Ella answered, a bit too quickly. “I raised three beautiful children—how can I be unhappy?”

But Jeannette didn’t sound convinced. “I meant with Daddy.”

Ella didn’t know what to say, except the truth. “Your father and I have been married a long time. It’s difficult to remain in love after so many years.”

“I understand,” said Jeannette, and, oddly, Ella had the feeling she did.

After she hung up, Ella allowed herself to muse over love. She sat curled up in her rocking chair and wondered how she, hurt and cynical as she was, could ever experience love again. Love was for those looking for some rhyme or reason in this wildly spinning world. But what about those who had long given up the quest?

Before the day ended, she wrote back to Aziz.


Dear Aziz (if I may),

Thanks for your kind and heartwarming reply, which helped me through a family crisis. My daughter and I managed to leave behind that awful misunderstanding, as you politely called it.

You were right about one thing. I constantly vacillate between two opposites: aggressive and passive. Either I meddle too much in the lives of loved ones or I feel helpless in the face of their actions.

As for submission, I’ve never experienced the kind of peaceful surrender you wrote to me about. Honestly, I don’t think I have what it takes to be a Sufi. But I have to give you this: Amazingly, things between Jeannette and me turned out the way I wanted only after I stopped wanting and interfering. I owe you a big thank-you. I, too, would have prayed for you, but it has been such a long time since I last knocked on God’s door that I’m not sure if He still lives in the same place. Oops, did I speak like the innkeeper in your story? Don’t worry, I’m not that bitter. Not yet. Not yet.

Your friend in Northampton,



Ella





The Letter





FROM BAGHDAD TO KAYSERI, SEPTEMBER 29, 1243


Bismillahirrahmanirrahim,

Brother Seyyid Burhaneddin,

Peace be on you, and the mercy of God, and His blessings.

I was very pleased to receive your letter and learn that you were as devoted to the path of love as ever. And yet your letter also put me in a quandary. For as soon as I learned you were looking for the companion of Rumi, I knew who you were talking about. What I did not know was what to do next.

You see, there was under my roof a wandering dervish, Shams of Tabriz, who fit your description to the letter. Shams believed he had a special mission in this world, and to this end he wished to enlighten an enlightened person. Looking for neither disciples nor students, he asked God for a companion. Once he said to me that he hadn’t come for the common people. He had come to put his finger on the pulse of those who guided the world to the Truth.

When I received your letter, I knew that Shams was destined to meet Rumi. Still, to make sure every one of my dervishes got an equal chance, I gathered them and without going into any details told them about a scholar whose heart had to be opened. Though there were a few candidates, Shams was the only one who persevered even after hearing about the dangers of the task. That was back in winter. The same scene was repeated in spring and then in autumn.

You might be wondering why I waited this long. I have thought hard about this and frankly can offer only one reason: I have grown fond of Shams. It pained me to know that I was sending him on a dangerous journey.

You see, Shams is not an easy person. As long as he lived a nomadic life, he could manage it pretty well, but if he stays in a town and mingles with the townspeople, I am afraid he will ruffle some feathers. This is why I tried to postpone his journey as long as I could.

The evening before Shams left, we took a long walk around the mulberry trees where I grow silkworms. Old habits rarely die. Painfully delicate and surprisingly strong, silk resembles love. I told Shams how the silkworms destroy the silk they produce as they emerge from their cocoons. This is why the farmers have to make a choice between the silk and the silkworm. More often than not, they kill the silkworm while it is inside the cocoon in order to pull the silk out intact. It takes the lives of hundreds of silkworms to produce one silk scarf.