"All loves are a bridge to Divine love. Yet, those who have not had a taste of it do not know!" -- by Jalaleddin Rumi, Sufi mystic and poet
Islamic Sufism and Dervishes go together. There have been Semazen or Dervishes for the past 700 years; as an element of Sufiism, a mystical practice within Islam, the Sufi way of living is focused on love, tolerance, worship of God, community development, and personal development through self-discipline and responsibility. A Sufi's way of life is to love, to serve people, to abandon the ego as a false self, and all illusion, so that one might reach mature wholeness or holiness, and attain Allah, the True One. The Sufi doctrine of Rumi: Illustrated Edition by William Chittick delves into Sufi spirituality deeply.
The practice of the Whirling Dervishes is one branch of Sufi practice within Islam. Sufis value universal love and service to all of Creation. The Order of the Whirling Dervishes has been in existence since at least the 13th century; when the great Rumi, inspired by Turkish tradition, fell under influence by the Sufi movement, it was a chance meeting with a Dervish that converted Rumi's thoughts to those of a mystic and an ascetic.
The thought that the earth is round, the seasons rotate, the stars travel the sky, the human body circulates blood, the great wheel of the earth turns, thus there is no created being which does not revolve in some fashion. While this may all be quite natural and without effort, humankind possesses an intelligence which permits these observations, distinguishing him from other creatures.
By twirling, rather than move into an estatic state as some might suppose, the Dervishes seek to revolve in harmony, with all things in nature. So in fact, he is engaging in a harmonizing action by whirling, witnessing the existence and magnificence of the Creator. So says the Qur'an: "Whatever is in the skies, or on earth invokes God." (64:1)
While the whirling is perhaps the most dramatic aspect of their practice, the Sufi seeks unity with three principal parts of human nature: the mind, the heart and the body. Sufis seek connection with the mind through intellectual activity such as gaining in knowledge or thought-meditation; they seek connection through the heart with activities such as poetry, musical expression of feelings; the body is sought in Sufi expression by whirling, by physical engagement with life activities.
Uniquely the Sufi is inspired in all these ways through the Sema, or whirling ceremony. The Dervishes engage in this practice as representation of the human spiritual journey. They grow by turning towards the truth of all things, transcending the ego, then growing through love; this spiritual journey is completed with a sense of holiness, an ability to love and serve all equally.
Sufism mostly concentrates on the interior world of human life, addressing the meaning and effect of specific practices on man's spirit and heart which while abstract, is not contradictory to any Islamic teaching based on the Qur'an or Sunna.
Showing posts with label sufi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sufi. Show all posts
Friday, January 25, 2013
Friday, June 5, 2009
False Generalizations
Recognize that a concept is just a concept, and not reality. --Joko Charlotte Beck
Generalizations. Assumptions. We all make them. And they cause all of us grief. The world as it is. Reality is not an assumption. It's not the way we want things to be, or the way we think about things to be. "Each moment, life as it is--the only Teacher. Being just this moment--compassion's way."
Joko Beck writes in her book, Nothing Special, Living Zen, about the Sufi sage and fool, Nasrudin who was once said to have been in his flower garden sprinkling bread crumbs over everything. His neighbor saw what he was doing and asked him why. To which Nasrudin replied, "to keep the tigers away!" The neighbor, laughing, said, "but there aren't tigers within a thousand miles!"
"Effective, isn't it?" said Nasrudin. Beck writes, "we laugh because we're sure that the two things--bread crumbs and tigers-- have nothing to do with each other. Yet as with Nasrudin, our practice and our lives are based upon false generalizations that have nothing to do with reality."
If we base our lives, most often unconsciously, upon generalizations or assumptions, and we do not ask ourselves or others about what is happening in our lives in this moment, in this day, like Nasrudin we build our understanding upon false notion, upon false generalizations. "Such generalities obscure the specific, concrete reality of our lives." In fact says Beck, "life is not general, it is specific." Sitting practice, or zazen cuts through the unconsciousness, the grey lights that obscure the more specific observations that we might otherwise make about ourselves and others, views which lead to the questions of how, why, what is this about, or what is necessary?
For example, "instead of I can't stand myself when I do such and such, we [then come to] see more clearly what's going on. We're not covering events with a broad brush" of assumptions, generalizations, powerful emotions--energies that take our focus elsewhere, away from our experience, our situations. Often, in conversations, we exchange notions and we are like two ships at sea, continuing on, lost in a grey murk of conceptual material, of analytic, virtual thought. Avoiding experience, no contact takes place. It may be a form of Zen combat, or it may be without of an experience precisely for that reason-- experience is what we fear to know about.
"In Zen practice, we tend to toss around many fancy concepts: Everything is in perfect being as it is, we're all doing the best we can, things are all one, I [you, we are] one with him. We call this Zen bullshit, though other religions have their own versions." And it's not that the statements are false; they have a universal truth. But, says Beck, "if we stop there, we have turned our practice into an exercise of concepts, and we've lost awareness of what's going on with us right this second. Good practice [zazen] always entails moving through our concepts... recognize that a concept is just a concept, and not reality."
When we "notice our thoughts... then we have to experience the pain that accompanies the thought." Why? Simply because it is our thought, and our pain. We have made them both; they are our very own. "When we can stay with the pain as a pure physical sensation, then at some point it will dissolve, and we can move into the truth... But we have to move from experience which is painful, into truth and not plaster thoughts over our experience. Intellectual people are particularly prone to this error." The rational world of concepts is a mere description of the real world. In contrast, when we allow this pure experience of our own, we come into zazen.
As Bassui says, "clearly seeing into one's nature is called practice. And the seat that puts an end to analytic thoughts is called Zazen."
And only when we "move through [to] the experiential level does life have meaning. This is what Christians and Jews mean by 'being with God.' Experiencing is out of time: it is not the past, not the future, not even the present in the usual sense." Unable to say in words what it is, we can only learn to be it. Some call it 'an-other world,' or 'living in the spirit.'
Catholic Christian writer, theologian, mystic and Pope, John Paul II, exhorted the practice, saying that "it is not enough to have, we must instead be." He emphasized that we must not only, for example, be in love, to have love, but we ourselves must be that experience--we must be love itself. We must not only have pain or grief, but we must, moreover, be that pain and grief.
A challenge indeed for those on the Way. We all have our favorite notions, our concepts of ourselves and others. They can become 'frozen in time.' We are caught by the thinking that emphasizes permanence. Yet the world, ourselves, and others are not permanent. At any moment, any cloud, any storm may take us far away to other shores in other places. Remember that practice is just what is; it is not unusual or exotic. It is not only open to the few; all beings have experiences. Learning to live fully those experiences is what in traditional Buddhist terms, is being buddha-nature itself.
"Compassion grows from such roots," emphasizes Joko Beck.
Generalizations. Assumptions. We all make them. And they cause all of us grief. The world as it is. Reality is not an assumption. It's not the way we want things to be, or the way we think about things to be. "Each moment, life as it is--the only Teacher. Being just this moment--compassion's way."
Joko Beck writes in her book, Nothing Special, Living Zen, about the Sufi sage and fool, Nasrudin who was once said to have been in his flower garden sprinkling bread crumbs over everything. His neighbor saw what he was doing and asked him why. To which Nasrudin replied, "to keep the tigers away!" The neighbor, laughing, said, "but there aren't tigers within a thousand miles!"
"Effective, isn't it?" said Nasrudin. Beck writes, "we laugh because we're sure that the two things--bread crumbs and tigers-- have nothing to do with each other. Yet as with Nasrudin, our practice and our lives are based upon false generalizations that have nothing to do with reality."
If we base our lives, most often unconsciously, upon generalizations or assumptions, and we do not ask ourselves or others about what is happening in our lives in this moment, in this day, like Nasrudin we build our understanding upon false notion, upon false generalizations. "Such generalities obscure the specific, concrete reality of our lives." In fact says Beck, "life is not general, it is specific." Sitting practice, or zazen cuts through the unconsciousness, the grey lights that obscure the more specific observations that we might otherwise make about ourselves and others, views which lead to the questions of how, why, what is this about, or what is necessary?
For example, "instead of I can't stand myself when I do such and such, we [then come to] see more clearly what's going on. We're not covering events with a broad brush" of assumptions, generalizations, powerful emotions--energies that take our focus elsewhere, away from our experience, our situations. Often, in conversations, we exchange notions and we are like two ships at sea, continuing on, lost in a grey murk of conceptual material, of analytic, virtual thought. Avoiding experience, no contact takes place. It may be a form of Zen combat, or it may be without of an experience precisely for that reason-- experience is what we fear to know about.
"In Zen practice, we tend to toss around many fancy concepts: Everything is in perfect being as it is, we're all doing the best we can, things are all one, I [you, we are] one with him. We call this Zen bullshit, though other religions have their own versions." And it's not that the statements are false; they have a universal truth. But, says Beck, "if we stop there, we have turned our practice into an exercise of concepts, and we've lost awareness of what's going on with us right this second. Good practice [zazen] always entails moving through our concepts... recognize that a concept is just a concept, and not reality."
When we "notice our thoughts... then we have to experience the pain that accompanies the thought." Why? Simply because it is our thought, and our pain. We have made them both; they are our very own. "When we can stay with the pain as a pure physical sensation, then at some point it will dissolve, and we can move into the truth... But we have to move from experience which is painful, into truth and not plaster thoughts over our experience. Intellectual people are particularly prone to this error." The rational world of concepts is a mere description of the real world. In contrast, when we allow this pure experience of our own, we come into zazen.
As Bassui says, "clearly seeing into one's nature is called practice. And the seat that puts an end to analytic thoughts is called Zazen."
And only when we "move through [to] the experiential level does life have meaning. This is what Christians and Jews mean by 'being with God.' Experiencing is out of time: it is not the past, not the future, not even the present in the usual sense." Unable to say in words what it is, we can only learn to be it. Some call it 'an-other world,' or 'living in the spirit.'
Catholic Christian writer, theologian, mystic and Pope, John Paul II, exhorted the practice, saying that "it is not enough to have, we must instead be." He emphasized that we must not only, for example, be in love, to have love, but we ourselves must be that experience--we must be love itself. We must not only have pain or grief, but we must, moreover, be that pain and grief.
A challenge indeed for those on the Way. We all have our favorite notions, our concepts of ourselves and others. They can become 'frozen in time.' We are caught by the thinking that emphasizes permanence. Yet the world, ourselves, and others are not permanent. At any moment, any cloud, any storm may take us far away to other shores in other places. Remember that practice is just what is; it is not unusual or exotic. It is not only open to the few; all beings have experiences. Learning to live fully those experiences is what in traditional Buddhist terms, is being buddha-nature itself.
"Compassion grows from such roots," emphasizes Joko Beck.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Nasrudin: The Lamp and the Key
Sufism, as a practice, emphasizes certain unique rituals for guiding spiritual seekers into a direct encounter with God. It comes from the Islamic traditions in places especially Persia or Iran.
Muhammad is considered the chief prophet; many consider Sufism to be a mystical practice of Islam. The following story by the great Sufi teacher, Nasrudin, illustrates a common experience for those along the Way.
His friend, Mansour, comes to visit him and sees Nasruddin on his hands and knees, crawling on the sidewalk under the street lamp, obviously searching for something, appearing frustrated.
Concerned for his friend, Mansour asks, "Nasruddin, what are you looking for? Did you lose something?"
"Yes, Mansour. I lost the key to my house, and I’m trying to find it, but I can’t."
"Let me help you," responds Mansour. Mansour joins his friend, kneels down on his hands and knees, and begins to crawl on the sidewalk under the street lamp, searching.
After a time, having looked everywhere on and around the sidewalk, neither Nasruddin nor Mansour can find the lost key. Puzzled, Mansour asks his friend to recall his steps when he last had the key, "Nasruddin, where did you lose the key? When did you last have it?"
"I lost the key in my house," Nasruddin responds.
"In your house?" repeats the astonished Mansour. "Then why are we looking for the key here, outside on the sidewalk under this street lamp?”
Without hesitation, Nasruddin explains, “Because there is more light here . . . !”
In his book At Home in the Muddy Water, by Ezra Bayda, Buddhist practitioner and teacher, recounts this story about a key and a light.
"In trying to uncover how to best proceed with practice, we're often like Nasrudin, looking in the wrong place. Sometimes we're looking in the wrong place for something that isn't even there. We think there is a magic key, some experience that will make the practice permanently clear, especially in the midst of everyday difficulties." In the simple mind, we realize there is no magic key, nor do we need one. What is needed is to persevere through the ups and downs of life. We hold our own key.
Muhammad is considered the chief prophet; many consider Sufism to be a mystical practice of Islam. The following story by the great Sufi teacher, Nasrudin, illustrates a common experience for those along the Way.
His friend, Mansour, comes to visit him and sees Nasruddin on his hands and knees, crawling on the sidewalk under the street lamp, obviously searching for something, appearing frustrated.
Concerned for his friend, Mansour asks, "Nasruddin, what are you looking for? Did you lose something?"
"Yes, Mansour. I lost the key to my house, and I’m trying to find it, but I can’t."
"Let me help you," responds Mansour. Mansour joins his friend, kneels down on his hands and knees, and begins to crawl on the sidewalk under the street lamp, searching.
After a time, having looked everywhere on and around the sidewalk, neither Nasruddin nor Mansour can find the lost key. Puzzled, Mansour asks his friend to recall his steps when he last had the key, "Nasruddin, where did you lose the key? When did you last have it?"
"I lost the key in my house," Nasruddin responds.
"In your house?" repeats the astonished Mansour. "Then why are we looking for the key here, outside on the sidewalk under this street lamp?”
Without hesitation, Nasruddin explains, “Because there is more light here . . . !”
In his book At Home in the Muddy Water, by Ezra Bayda, Buddhist practitioner and teacher, recounts this story about a key and a light.
"In trying to uncover how to best proceed with practice, we're often like Nasrudin, looking in the wrong place. Sometimes we're looking in the wrong place for something that isn't even there. We think there is a magic key, some experience that will make the practice permanently clear, especially in the midst of everyday difficulties." In the simple mind, we realize there is no magic key, nor do we need one. What is needed is to persevere through the ups and downs of life. We hold our own key.
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