The Bushy Daughters Go To War and Find Rumi

(gd) The Bushy Twins Go to War by Lil Asbell

---

You want to make an unhappy housewife out of me. You want me to be you, Mom. Was she an unhappy housewife? A middle-aged mom trapped in a failing marriage? Was this how her children saw her? And her husband, too? What about friends and neighbors? Suddenly she had the feeling that everyone around her secredy pitied her, and the suspicion was so painful that she gasped. Jeannette gave her mother a mock leer. And just like that, she pushed back her chair, threw her napkin aside, and walked out of the kitchen. Aunt Esther left next, mumbling some poor excuse while chewing fiercely on her last antacid tablet.

David and Ella remained at the table, an intense awkwardness hanging in the air between them. It pained Ella to have to face this void, which, as they both knew, had nothing to do with Jeannette or any of their children. David grabbed the fork he had put aside and inspected it for a while. Ella looked at her husband in astonishment, like someone who had never seen her reflection before and who now held a mirror to her face.

Had she stopped loving him? It was a question she had never asked herself before. She wanted to respond but lacked not so much the will as the words. Deep inside she knew it was the two of them they should be concerned about, not their children. But instead they were doing what they both were best at: She started to cry, unable to hold back this continuing sadness that had, without her knowledge, become a part of who she was. David turned his anguished face away. They both knew he hated to see her cry just as much as she hated to cry in front of him.

Fortunately, the phone rang just then, saving them. David picked it up. Did you have a chance to start working on the manuscript? Her first assignment at the literary agency was to read a novel by an unknown European author. She was then expected to write an extensive report on it. But Michelle was all business. It might take longer than you expect to write a report on a novel like that. Ella imagined her juggling several tasks simultaneously — checking e-mails, reading a review on one of her authors, taking a bite from her tuna-salad sandwich, and polishing her fingernails — all while talking on the phone.

I need to go. Just keep in mind the deadline is in three weeks.

It had felt thrilling to be the first one to read an unpublished novel by an unknown author and to play however small a role in his fate. Michelle must have detected her hesitation. When no answer came, she grew insistent. Perhaps you could give me another novel — you know, something I could more easily relate to. Just this week I finished working on a book by an Iranian woman who used to operate a brothel in Tehran and had to flee the country.

Should I have told her to send the manuscript to an Iranian agency instead? Listen, forget what I said. And most of them are almost half your age. Later in the day, she was alone on the porch sitting in her favorite rocking chair, looking at the orangey- red Northampton sunset. The sky felt so close and open that you could almost touch it. Her brain had gone quiet, as if tired of all the noise swirling inside. One by one, she locked them all in small mental boxes. In that frame of mind, Ella took the manuscript out of its package and bounced it in her hand, as if weighing it.

The tide of the novel was written on the cover in indigo ink: Ella had been told that nobody knew much about the author — a certain A. Zahara, who lived in Holland. His manuscript had been shipped to the literary agency from Amsterdam with a postcard inside the envelope.

On the front of the postcard was a picture of tulip fields in dazzling pinks, yellows, and purples, and on the back a note written in delicate handwriting: The story I herewith send you takes place in thirteenth-century Konya in Asia Minor. But I sincerely believe that it cuts across countries, cultures, and centuries.

May love be always with you and you always surrounded with love. But Steve was not a man who had time to read the work of an amateur writer. Little did she know that this was going to be not just any book, but the book that changed her life. In the time she was reading it, her life would be rewritten. Ella turned the first page. There was a note about the writer. Zahara lives in Amsterdam with his books, cats, and turtles when he is not traveling around the world. Sweet Blasphemy is his first novel and most probably his last.

He has no intention of becoming a novelist and has written this book purely out of admiration and love for the great philosopher, mystic, and poet Rumi and his beloved sun, Shams of Tabriz. Her eyes moved down the page to the next line. And there Ella read something that rang strangely familiar: For despite what some people say, love is not only a sweet feeling bound to come and quickly go away. Her jaw dropped as she realized this was the contradiction of the exact sentence she had spoken to her daughter in the kitchen earlier in the day. She stood still for a moment, shivering with the thought that some mysterious force in the universe, or else this writer, whoever he might be, was spying on her.

Perhaps he had written this book knowing beforehand what kind of person was going to read it first. This writer had her in mind as his reader. For some reason unbeknownst to her, Ella found the idea both disturbing and exciting. In many ways the twenty-first century is not that different from the thirteenth century. Both will be recorded in history as times of unprecedented religious clashes, cultural misunderstandings, and a general sense of insecurity and fear of the Other. At times like these, the need for love is greater than ever.

A sudden wind blew in her direction, cool and strong, scattering the leaves on the porch. The beauty of the sunset drifted toward the western horizon, and the air felt dull, joyless. Because love is the very essence and purpose of life. Instead she took a deep breath, turned the page, and started to read. Sweet Blasphemy A Novel A. The dot underneath the B embodies the entire universe.. The Mathnawi starts with B, Just like all the chapters in this novel.. Foreword Beset with religious clashes, political disputes, and endless power struggles, the thirteenth century was a turbulent period in Anatolia.

In the West, the Crusaders, on their way to Jerusalem, occupied and sacked Constantinople, leading to the partition of the Byzantine Empire. In the East, highly disciplined Mongol armies swiftly expanded under the military genius of Genghis Khan. In between, different Turkish tribes fought among themselves while the Byzantines tried to recover their lost land, wealth, and power. It was a time of unprecedented chaos when Christians fought Christians, Christians fought Muslims, and Muslims fought Muslims. Everywhere one turned, there was hostility and anguish and an intense fear of what might happen next.

In the midst of this chaos lived a distinguished Islamic scholar, known as Jalal ad-Din Rumi. In , Rumi met Shams — a wandering dervish with unconventional ways and heretical proclamations. Their encounter altered both their lives. At the same time, it marked the beginning of a solid, unique friendship that Sufis in the centuries to follow likened to the union of two oceans. By meeting this exceptional companion, Rumi was transformed from a mainstream cleric to a committed mystic, passionate poet, advocate of love, and originator of the ecstatic dance of the whirling dervishes, daring to break free of all conventional rules.

In an age of deeply embedded bigotries and clashes, he stood for a universal spirituality, opening his doors to people of all backgrounds. Not all people welcomed these ideas, however, just as not all people open their hearts to love. The powerful spiritual bond between Shams and Rumi became the target of rumor, slander, and attack. They were misunderstood, envied, vilified, and ultimately betrayed by those closest to them. Three years after they met, they were tragically separated. In truth, there never was an end.

Almost eight hundred years later, the spirits of Shams and Rumi are still alive today, whirling amid us somewhere Yet his eyes follow me wherever I go, bright and imposing, like two dark stars ominously hanging in the sky above. I came to Alexandria hoping that if I traveled far enough, I could escape this piercing memory and stop the wail echoing inside my mind, that very last cry he gave out before his face drained of blood, his eyes bulged out, and his throat closed in an unfinished gasp, the farewell of a stabbed man.

The howl of a trapped wolf. When you kill someone, something from that person passes to you — a sigh, a smell or a gesture. People who see me on the street have no way of knowing this, but I carry with me the traces of all the men I have killed. I wear them around my neck like invisible necklaces, feeling their presence against my flesh, tight and heavy. Uncomfortable though it feels, I have gotten used to living with this burden and have accepted it as part of my job. Ever since Cain slew Abel, in every murderer breathes the man he murdered, that much I know.

But then why was I shaken so badly after that last incident? Everything was different this time, right from the start. Take the way I found the job, for instance. Or should I say instead the way the job found me? Early in the spring of , I was working for a brothel patron in Konya, a hermaphrodite famous for her anger and wrath.

I remember the day vividly. I was hunting a harlot who had escaped the brothel to find God. She was a beautiful young woman, which sort of broke my heart, because when I caught up with her, I was going to ruin her face so bad that no man would ever want to look at her again. I was this close to catching the stupid woman when I found a mysterious letter on my doorsill. I had never learned how to read, so I took it to the madrassa, where I paid a student to read it for me. We also know that after the death of Hassan Sabbah and the incarceration of your leaders, the order is not what it used to be.

You came to Konya to escape persecution, and you have been under disguise ever since. It assured me that payment would be satisfactory. If interested, I was to appear in a well-known tavern that evening after dark. Once there, I had to sit at the table closest to the window, my back to the door, my head bowed down, and my eyes fixed on the floor. I would soon be joined by the person or persons who would hire me. They were going to give me all the information I needed to know. Neither when they arrived nor as they left, and at no point during our conversation, could I raise my head and look at their faces.

It was a strange letter. But then again, I was used to dealing with the whims of clients. Over the years I had been hired by all sorts of people, and most of them wished to keep their names secret. Experience had taught me that, more often than not, the more strongly a client strived to hide his identity, the closer he happened to be to his victim, but that was none of my business. My task was to kill. Not to inquire into the reasons behind my assignment. Ever since I left Alamut years ago, this had been the life I chose for myself.

I seldom ask questions anyway. Most folks I know have at least one person they want to get rid of. In fact, everyone has it in him to kill someday.

But it is just a matter of coincidence. Sometimes even a gesture is enough to inflame their tempers. A deliberate misunderstanding, a squabble over nothing, or simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time can bring out a destructive streak in people who are otherwise good and decent fellows. But not everyone can kill a stranger in cold blood. That is where I enter the picture.

I did the dirty work of others. Even God recognized the need for someone like me in His holy scheme when He appointed Azrael the Archangel of Death to terminate lives. In this way human beings feared, cursed, and hated the angel while His hands remained clean and His name unblemished. But then again, this world was not known for its justice, was it? When darkness setded, I went to the tavern. The table by the window happened to be occupied by a scar-faced man who seemed to be in deep sleep. It occurred to me to wake him up and tell him to go somewhere else, but with drunks you never knew how they would react, and I had to be careful not to draw too much attention to myself.

So I sat at the next available table, facing the window. Before long, two men arrived. They sat on either side of me so as not to show their faces. I noticed they were scared of me, which was a good thing. If they were scared sufficiendy, they could not dare to do me wrong. That is why they call me Jackal Head. I have never let my clients down, no matter how hard the task. Ever since he came to this town, he has brought nothing but trouble. We have warned him several times, but he pays us no attention. If anything, he has become all the more contentious.

He leaves us no other option. Each time the clients tried to explain themselves before we cut a deal, as if my approval could in any way lessen the gravity of what they were about to do. Tell me, who is this person? They seemed reluctant to give me a name, offering vague descriptions instead. A maverick of a dervish. Your payment will be commensurate with your effort. Whatever your fee is, we are ready to double the price. But to my surprise, after a brief hesitation, they both agreed.

I sat back in my seat, feeling jittery. With this money I could finally afford the price of a bride and get married and stop fretting over how to make ends meet. Dervish or not, anyone was worth killing for this amount. How could I know in that moment that I was making the biggest mistake of my life and would spend the rest of my days regretting it?

How could I know it would be so hard to kill the dervish and that even long after he was dead, his knifelike gaze would follow me everywhere? Four years have passed since I stabbed him in that courtyard and dumped his body in a well, waiting to hear the splash that never came. It was as if rather than falling down into the water he fell up toward the sky. I still cannot sleep without having nightmares, and if I look at water, any source of water, for more than a few seconds, a cold horror grips my whole body and I throw up.

The vision that took hold of me this evening was a most lucid one. There was a big house with a courtyard full of yellow roses in bloom and in the middle of the courtyard a well with the coolest water in the world. It was a serene, late-autumn night with a full moon in the sky. A few nocturnal animals hooted and howled in the background. In a little while, a middle-aged man with a kind face, broad shoulders, and deep-set hazel eyes walked out of the house, looking for me. His expression was vexed, and his eyes were immensely sad. The owls stopped hooting, the bats stopped flapping their wings, and even the fire in the hearth inside the house did not crackle.

An absolute stillness descended upon the world. The man slowly approached the well, bent over, and looked down below. The man leaned closer and looked down into the well again. But then, deep down at the bottom of the well, he caught sight of my hand floating aimlessly on the rippling water like a rickety raft after a heavy storm.

Next he recognized a pair of eyes — two shiny black stones, staring up at the full moon now coming out from behind thick, dark clouds. My eyes were fixed on the moon as if waiting for an explanation from the skies for my murder. The man fell on his knees, crying and pounding his chest. They killed my Shams! Just then a shadow scurried out from behind a bush, and with fast, furtive moves it hopped over the garden wall, like a wildcat.

Seized by a crushing pain, he screamed and screamed until his voice shattered like glass and flew all over into the night in tiny, prickly shards. Stop screaming like a maniac. Do you hear me? I pretended not to hear him, preferring to stay inside my vision for at least a bit longer. I wanted to learn more about my death. I also wanted to see the man with the saddest eyes. How was he related to me, and why was he so desperately looking for me on an autumn night? But before I could sneak another look at my vision, someone from the other dimension grabbed me by the arm and shook me so hard I felt my teeth rathe in my mouth.

It yanked me back into this world. Slowly, reluctantly, I opened my eyes and saw the person standing beside me. He was a tall, corpulent man with a hoary beard and thick mustache, curved and pointy at the tips. I recognized him as the innkeeper. Almost instantly I noticed two things about him: That he was a man used to intimidating people with tough talk and sheer violence. And that right now he was furious. You are scaring away my customers. Have I been screaming? You were screaming like a bear with a thorn stuck in its paw.

What happened to you? Did you doze off during dinner? You must have had a nightmare or something. Still, I did not want to lie. Especially you wandering types. All day long you fast and pray and walk under the scorching sun. No wonder you start hallucinating — your brain is hied! He could be right. They say there is a thin line between losing yourself in God and losing your mind.

Two serving boys appeared just then, carrying between them a huge tray stacked with plates: They went around the hall distributing them, filling the air with the scents of onion, garlic, and spices. When they stopped by my end of the table, I got myself a bowl of steaming soup and some dark bread. In return for the food and the room, I could interpret your dreams. Find a nice woman and settle down. That will help to keep your feet on the ground.

There is nothing new out there. I have customers bom the farthest corners of the world. After a few drinks, I hear the same stories bom them all. Men are the same everywhere. Same food, same water, same old crap. In his face I saw bitterness and indignation, and something else that resembled childish hurt. He is inside each and every one of us. That is why He never abandons us. How can He abandon Himself? If God brings to mind mostly fear and blame, it means there is too much fear and blame welled inside us.

If we see God as full of love and compassion, so are we. When we turned in that direction, we saw two rough-looking men yelling drunken gibberish. With unbridled insolence they were bullying the other customers, snatching food off their bowls, drinking from their cups, and, should anyone protest, mocking them like two naughty maktab boys. The man must not have been expecting this at all, for he collapsed on the floor like an empty sack. A barely audible sigh came out of his lips, but other than that he made no noise.

He kicked his unruly customer in the ribs and then stomped on his hand, grinding it under his heavy boots. We heard the crack of a finger breaking, or maybe more. Is that what you want? In this world of illusions, so many people were ready to fight without any reason, and so many others fought for a reason. There was no way I could resort to violence. But I could thrust myself like a soft blanket between the innkeeper and the customers to keep them apart. A minute later, when the serving boys lifted up the two customers, one of them had a broken finger and the other a broken nose, and there was blood all over.

A fearful silence descended on the dining hall. When he spoke again, it sounded as if he were addressing everyone around, his voice soaring high and wild, like a marauder bird boasting in the open sky. When God forgets about us down here, it falls upon us common people to toughen up and restore justice. So next time you talk to Him, you tell Him that. They will turn into wolves. I can see that you have become a wolf indeed. In return for food and bed, you were going to interpret my dreams. Instinctively, distrustfully, he flinched. I inspected the lines and found them deep, cracked, marking uneven paths.

Bit by bit, the colors in his aura appeared to me: His spiritual energy was hollowed out and thinned around the edges, as if it had no more strength to defend itself against the outside world. Deep inside, the man was no more alive than a wilting plant. To make up for the loss of his spiritual energy, he had doubled up his physical energy, which he used in excess.

My heart beat faster, for I had started seeing something. At first dimly, as if behind a veil, then with increasing clarity, a scene appeared in front of my eyes. A young woman with chestnut hair, bare feet with black tattoos, and an embroidered red shawl draped over her shoulders. Her breasts swollen with milk and her belly so huge it looks as if it could rip apart. She is stuck in a hut on fire. There are warriors around the house, riding horses with silver-gilded saddles. The thick smell of burning hay and human flesh.

Mongol riders, their noses flat and wide, necks thick and short, and hearts as hard as rocks. The mighty army of Genghis Khan. Suddenly he looked old beyond his years.

It was a wooden plank in the ceiling that collapsed on her head. She died instandy, without any pain. You always assumed she had suffered terribly, but in reality she did not suffer at all. You still see her in your dreams, crawling out of the pit she was buried in. But your mind is playing games with you. In truth, your wife and son are both fine, traveling in infinity, as free as a speck of light.

But make sure you are gone early in the morning. When you spoke the truth, they hated you. The more you talked about love, the more they hated you. She felt as though the lid of a boiling cauldron had suddenly been lifted, emitting old conflicts and new resentments in the rising steam Unfortunately, it was no one other than she who had lifted that lid. But on this day in May, she was so sure of herself and the ground beneath her feet that she could not for the life of her fathom any dire consequences from her intrusion. Rubinstein, how may I help you? And in a no-less-civilized tone, Ella told him that although she had nothing against him personally, he was too young and inexperienced to marry her daughter.

Upset as he might be to receive this call now, she added, someday in the not-so-distant future he would understand and even thank her for warning him in time. Until then she asked him to kindly drop the subject of marriage and to keep this phone conversation between the two of them There was a thick, dense silence.

How could people be naive enough to expect love to open every door for them? They looked at love as if it were a magic wand that could fix everything with one miraculous touch. But you are too young and life is long. Tomorrow you might fall in love with someone else.

Account Options

Tomorrow you, too, might fall in love with someone else. So did my husband. Marriage is a serious decision, which needs to be considered very carefully. The conversation went downhill horn there, filled with distress and disappointment. When they finally hung up, Ella headed to the kitchen and did what she always did at times of emotional unrest: Half an hour later, she received a call horn her husband. Honey, let me explain. What you did was wrong. David sent Ella a text message informing her of a sudden emergency that had arisen.

There was no explanation as to the nature of the emergency. It was so unlike him and against the spirit of their marriage. He might flirt with woman after woman, could even sleep with them and spend his money on them for all she knew, but he had always come home and taken his place at the table in the evenings.

No matter how deep the rift between them, she always cooked and he always ate, gladly and gratefully, whatever she put on his plate. At the end of each dinner, David never failed to thank her — a heartfelt thank-you that she always took to be a coded apology for his infidelities. She forgave him She always did. This was the first time her husband had acted this brazen, and Ella blamed herself for the change. And although on the surface she was the same hands-on, concerned mother, she felt a surge of despair rise in her, a sharp taste in her mouth, sour like bile.

When dinner was over, Ella sat at the kitchen table on her own, finding the stillness around her heavy and unsettling. Suddenly the food she had cooked, the outcome of hours of hard work, seemed not only dull and boring but easily replaceable. She felt sorry for herself. She had so much love to give and yet no one demanding it. Her thoughts turned to Sweet Blasphemy. She was intrigued by the character of Shams of Tabriz. She smiled at the image. A handsome, sexy, Sufi motorcyclist riding fast on an empty highway! Ella then wondered what Shams would see if he read her palm Would he explain to her why her mind turned from time to time into a coven of dark thoughts?

Or how come she felt so lonely even though she had a large, loving family? What about the colors in her aura?

Editorial Reviews

Were they bright and bold? Had anything in her life been bright and bold lately? It was then and there, while sitting alone at the kitchen table with only a faint glimmer of light from the oven, that Ella realized that despite her high-flying words denying it, and despite her ability to keep a stiff upper lip, deep inside she longed for love. I stepped over bare feet and hands to reach my empty bedroll that reeked of sweat and mold. Since I was a boy, I had received visions and heard voices. I always talked to God, and He always responded. Some days I ascended all the way up to the seventh sky as light as a whisper.

Then I descended into the deepest pits of the earth, suffused with the smells of soil, hidden away like a rock buried under mighty oaks and sweet chestnuts. Every so often I lost my appetite for food and went without eating for days on end. None of these things scared me, though in time I had learned not to mention them to others. I had learned that firsthand. The first person to misjudge my visions was my father. I must have been ten years old when I started seeing my guardian angel on a daily basis and was naive enough to think that everyone else did as well. One day, while my father was teaching me how to build a cedar chest so that I could become a carpenter like him, I told him about my guardian angel.

Think of me as a duckling raised by hens. I am not a domestic bird destined to spend his life in a chicken coop. The water that scares you rejuvenates me. For unlike you I can swim, and swim I shall. The ocean is my homeland. If you are with me, come to the ocean. If not, stop interfering with me and go back to the chicken coop. If anything, they became more intense and gripping. Before long I left my house for good. Since then Tabriz has become a smooth, sweet word, so fine and delicate that it melts on my tongue.

Three scents accompany my memories of this place: I have been a wandering dervish ever since, not sleeping in the same place more than once, not eating out of the same bowl twice in a row, every day seeing different faces around me. When hungry, I earn a few coins by interpreting dreams. In this state I roam east and west, searching for God high and low.

I hunt everywhere for a life worth living and a knowledge worth knowing. Having roots nowhere, I have everywhere to go. From the coasts of the Black Sea to the cities of Persia, from the vast steppes of Central Asia to the sand dunes of Arabia, I have passed through thick forests, flat grasslands, and deserts; sojourned at caravansaries and hostels; consulted with the learned men in age-old libraries; listened to tutors teaching little children in maktabs: I have seen poverty-stricken villages, fields blackened by fire, and plundered towns where the rivers ran red and there were no men left alive above the age of ten.

I have seen the worst and the best in humanity. Nothing surprises me anymore. To me these were as universal, dependable, and invariable as the laws of nature. Together they constituted The Forty Rules of the Religion of Love, which could be attained through love and love only. And one of those rules said, The Path to the Truth is a labor of the heart, not of the head. Make your heart your primary guide!

Meet, challenge, and ultimately prevail over your nafs with your heart. Knowing your ego will lead you to the knowledge of God. It had taken me years to finish working on these rules. All forty of them. And now that I was done, I knew I was nearing the final stage of my time in this world. Lately I had been having many visions in this direction. There were many words piled up inside my chest, stories waiting to be told. I wanted to hand all this knowledge to one other person, neither a master nor a disciple.

I sought an equal — a companion. I stayed away from the ivory towers of scholars, preferring to spend time with outcasts, expatriates, and exiles. Now I am bursting. Help me to hand Thy wisdom to the right person. Then Thou can do with me as Thou wish. The air inside smelled fresh and alive, as if all the windows had been pushed open and a gusty wind brought in the scent of lilies and jasmine from faraway gardens.

In Baghdad you will find the master who will point you in the right direction. Now I knew that the man in my vision was no other than my spiritual companion. Sooner or later we were destined to meet. And when we did, I would learn why his kind hazel eyes were eternally sad and how I came to be murdered on an early-spring night. To her surprise, a personal blog appeared. The colors on the page were predominandy amethyst and turquoise, and on top of the page a male figure with a long white skirt whirled slowly.

Having never seen a whirling dervish before, Ella took a careful look at the picture. The blog was titled An Eggshell Named Life, and beneath it there was a poem with the same tide: Let us choose one another as companions! Inwardly we have many harmonies — think not That we are only what we see. The page was full of postcards from cities and sites all around the world. Underneath each postcard there were comments about that particular place.

It was while reading these that Ella came across three pieces of information that immediately drew her attention: First, that the A in A. Zahara stood for Aziz. Second, that Aziz regarded himself as a Sufi. Third, that at the moment he was traveling somewhere in Guatemala. In another section there were samples of the photos he had taken. Most were portraits of people of all colors and stripes. Despite their stark differences, they resembled one another in one curious respect: All the people in all the portraits had something visibly missing.

For some the missing element was a simple thing, like an earring, a shoe, or a button, while for others it was much more substantial, like a tooth, a finger, or sometimes a leg. Underneath the photos it read: No matter who we are or where we live, deep inside we all feel incomplete. Just what that something is, most of us never find out.

And of those who do, even fewer manage to go out and look for it. Ella scrolled up and down the Web page, clicked on every postcard to enlarge it, and read every comment Aziz had made. At the bottom of the page, there was an e-mail address, azizZzahara gmail. Next to that she found a poem by Rumi: Without the sweet life of Love, living is a burden — as you have seen. It was while reading this poem that a most peculiar thought flashed across her mind. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if everything Aziz Z.

Zahara included in his personal blog — the pictures, the comments, the quotations, and the poems — were written for her eyes only. It was a strange and slightly supercilious thought, but one that made perfect sense to her. Later in the afternoon, Ella sat by the window, feeling tired and slighdy down, the sun heavy on her back and the air in the kitchen filled with the smells of the brownies she was baking. It occurred to her that perhaps she, too, should write her own set of ground rules.

Stop running after impossible dreams! There are surely more important things in life for a married woman about to be forty. Unable to hold herself back anymore, she gave her elder daughter a call. She got her answering machine. I just wanted to make sure She could hear the soft rusde of the answering machine recording in the background. It made her nervous to think that the tape was rolling and time was running short. The answering machine came to a stop. What had come over her? Was it possible to be depressed and not know it? The address looked simple, unpretentious, and somehow inviting.

Without giving it much thought, she went to her computer and started composing an e-mail: Zahara, My name is Ella. I am reading your novel Sweet Blasphemy in my capacity as a reader for the literary agency. I have only just begun, and I am enjoying it immensely. This, however, is my personal opinion and is not reflective of the views of my boss.

Whether I like your novel or not, I have barely any influence on the final decision as to whether we will take you on as a client. It seems like you believe that love is the essence of life and that nothing else matters. Suffice it to say that I do not completely agree. But this is not why I am writing to you. Currently I am trying to persuade my elder daughter not to marry so young. The day before, I asked her boyfriend to call off their marriage plans.

Now my daughter hates me and refuses to talk to me. I have a feeling you two would get along well, as you seem to have very similar views on love. I am sorry to pour my personal problems out to you. Your personal blog that is where I found your e-mail address says you are in Guatemala. Traveling around the world must be quite a thrill If you happen to come to Boston, perhaps we could meet in person and talk over a cup of coffee.

Best wishes, Ella Her first e-mail to Aziz was not a letter so much as an invitation, a cry for help. We had important guests that afternoon. The high judge had dropped by with a group of his men, and I suspected there was more than cordiality behind his visit.

Renowned for his dislike of Sufism, the judge wanted to remind me that he kept an eye on us, just as he kept an eye on all the Sufis in the area. The judge was an ambitious man. He had a broad face, a sagging belly, and short, stubby fingers, each with a precious ring. He had to stop eating so much, but I suspected that nobody had the courage to tell him, not even his doctor. Coming bom a long line of religious scholars, he was one of the most influential men in the area.

Always dressed in fur coats and expensive garments, he carried himself with the grandeur of someone who was sure of his authority. I did not approve of his big ego, but for the well-being of our lodge I did my best to remain on good terms with this man of influence. We provide them safe haven. They are born, they go through childhood and adolescence, they grow old, and eventually they die.

Bestselling Series

At this moment in time, Baghdad is in its late youth. We are not as wealthy as we used to be at the time of Caliph Harun ar-Rashid, though we can still take a measure of pride in being a center of trade, crabs, and poetry. But who knows what the city will look like a thousand years bom now? Everything might be different.

That is, of course, if the status quo is not disrupted by the traitors among us. There are those who call themselves Muslim, but their interpretation of Islam is far more dangerous than threats bom infidels. It was no secret that the judge thought the mystics, with their individualistic and esoteric interpretations of Islam, were troublemakers. He accused us of paying no heed to the sharia and thus disrespecting the men of authority — men like him. Sometimes I had the feeling he would rather have all Sufis kicked out of Baghdad.

Thank God just then we heard a knock on the door. It was the ginger-haired novice. He made a beeline toward me and whispered in my ear that we had a visitor, a wandering dervish who insisted upon seeing me and refused to talk to anyone else. Normally I would have asked the novice to take the newcomer to a quiet, welcoming room, give him warm food, and make him wait until the guests had leh.

But as the judge was giving me a hard time, it occurred to me that a wandering dervish could dispel the tension in the room by telling us colorful stories bom faraway lands. So I asked the novice to bring the man in. A few minutes later, the door opened and in walked a man dressed head to toe in black. Lank, gaunt, and of indeterminable age, he had a sharp nose, deeply set pitch-black eyes, and dark hair that fell over his eyes in thick curls.

He wore a long, hooded cloak, a wool garment, and sheepskin boots. There were a number of charms around his neck. He held a wooden bowl in his hand of the sort that mendicant dervishes carry to overcome their personal vanity and hubris by accepting the charity of others. I realized that here was a man who did not pay much attention to the judgments of society. As soon as I saw him standing there, awaiting permission to introduce himself, I sensed he was different. It was in his eyes, in his elaborate gestures, written all over him Like an acorn that might seem modest and vulnerable to ignorant eyes but already heralds the proud oak tree that it will turn out to be, he looked at me with those piercing black eyes and nodded silendy.

After greeting everyone, the dervish sat down, inspecting the people in the room, taking in every detail. Finally his gaze stopped at the judge. I offered the dervish warm goat milk, sweetened figs, and filled dates, all of which he politely refused. When asked his name, he introduced himself as Shams of Tabriz and said he was a wandering dervish searching for God high and low. If God was with you all along, why did you rummage around this whole time in search of Him?

When he looked up again, his face was calm, his voice measured. Not everyone needs to dress in tatters and hit the road like you! We were just talking about the splendor of our city. You must have seen many places. Is there a place more charming than Baghdad? Cities are erected on spiritual columns. Like giant mirrors, they reflect the hearts of their residents. If those hearts darken and lose faith, cities will lose their glamour. It happens, and it happens all the time. Shams of Tabriz turned to me, momentarily distracted from his thoughts, with a friendly flicker in his eyes.

I felt them on me like the heat of a sweltering sun. That was when I clearly saw how he merited his name. This man was radiating vigor and vitality and burning within, like a ball of fire. The same with philosophers and poets! Why the need for so many words?

The Bushy Daughters Go to War and Find Rumi

Human beings are simple creatures with simple needs. It falls upon the leaders to see to their needs and make sure they do not go astray. That requires applying the sharia to perfection. But let us not forget that a candle helps us to go from one place to another in the dark. If we forget where we are headed and instead concentrate on the candle, what good is it? I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. Entering into a discussion about the significance of the sharia with a man whose job was to judge, and often punish, people according to the sharia was swimming in dangerous waters.

Shams of Tabriz straightened up, his gaze fixed as if reading from an invisible book, and he pronounced: There are four levels of insight. The first level is the outer meaning and it is the one that the majority of the people are content with.

The Bushy Daughters Go to War and Find Rumi : Virginia Dale :

Next is the Batm — the inner level. Third, there is the inner of the inner. And the fourth level is so deep it cannot be put into words and is therefore bound to remain indescribable. Sufis know the inner meaning. Saints know the inner of the inner. And as for the fourth level, that is known only by prophets and those closest to God. One day Moses was walking in the mountains on his own when he saw a shepherd in the distance. Please try again later.

Satire of the Bush family at its best with quotes from the ecstatic poet, Rumi, who shows the way to true peace and enlightenment. Amazon Giveaway allows you to run promotional giveaways in order to create buzz, reward your audience, and attract new followers and customers. Learn more about Amazon Giveaway.

Set up a giveaway. There's a problem loading this menu right now. Learn more about Amazon Prime. Get fast, free shipping with Amazon Prime. Get to Know Us. English Choose a language for shopping. Explore the Home Gift Guide. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs. Amazon Advertising Find, attract, and engage customers. Amazon Drive Cloud storage from Amazon.

Alexa Actionable Analytics for the Web. AmazonGlobal Ship Orders Internationally. Amazon Inspire Digital Educational Resources. Amazon Rapids Fun stories for kids on the go. Amazon Restaurants Food delivery from local restaurants. ComiXology Thousands of Digital Comics. East Dane Designer Men's Fashion.

• Progressive Historians
• Zac Power: Swamp Race
• Traders World Digest Issue #22
• Federal Cloud Computing: The Definitive Guide for Cloud Service Providers
• Die besten Anmachsprüche für Männer: Anmache nach Maß (German Edition)