“I Celâleddin of Rum.
Reality is like a musk’s pod,
the delights are in the scent.
To smell the scent,
to possess a fleeting instant
of that which soon passes,
most are satisfied.
But who is the one to seek the musk itself,
not served merely with the scent?
Happy is that one who finds the musk through the scent,
for the scent stays always with the musk.”
Chapter Four
The High Spirit
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J
ets sound like a rushing typhoon when they skim over you. Rick had suggested they meet, and forgetting the increasing noise, the local park sounded great.
Kewe’s been making rude comments. His apartment is directly under the flight path and the jets are flying overhead all the time, day and night.
With the planes constantly flying over, he has to wear earplugs to sleep. Now he’s realizing he cannot even enjoy a walk. Strolling in the park as they’re doing, he’s not happy. You have no chance. The oldest and prettiest part of Seattle now turned into an airstrip.
Despite this Kewe does want to talk to Rick about Jake. And he wants to ask about the Sufi Prayer Service which is coming up in a couple of days. Rick has taken a class on the Sufi.
As they’re walking, another plane flies over. Kewe looks up but Rick interrupts. “You’re across the room and Jake is in your body?” “I’d say,” Kewe replies. “I’m staring and he’s laughing. As far as I could tell, I’d separated without a body. Don’t ask me how Jake could see me, but I was there and he knew it. A pink glow filled the room.” Another plane sweeps over and Kewe gives it the finger.
Rick laughs. “If only that would stop them.”
“Now I’m thinking Jake doesn’t want to take over the physical body,” Kewe says. “That’s the message I’m getting. I thought it was my time to depart the planet, leave my Earth body to Jake. I’d no idea what the future held, or even if I had a future.”
They start along the track that winds around the reservoir. “Many people think you become a holy person or a devil when you cross over. You remain the same don’t you! I’m figuring now that the personality we have, like me Kewe, just continues.”
“Continues!”
“Exactly at the point it leaves it’s physical body.”
“How does Jake fit into this?”
“Ha! I don’t know! I have ideas!”
“But you say he is part of you?”
“I think he is my astral body, my light body. He is who I am in the light body!”
“Who you are?”
“Yes! My take on it now is that we are the same. Everything I know, Jake also knows. But it’s not as if there is any differentiation, any separation. It is me in a new outfit.”
“Why do you say your astral light body?”
“Something happened at the retreat center as I was leaving. After I said goodby to the woman waiting for the bus to collect her, I went back into the breakfast room because I hadn’t had anything to eat. Eric came in while I was eating bacon of all things. Even though I had told them I was a vegetarian. The bacon had already been cooked. I reasoned there would be no more bacon bought because I was eating it, so I had some.
“Eric!”
“Yes! He told me not to contact him! We had a list of everyone at the retreat, telephone numbers so we could contact them afterward. Eric apparently didn’t want me to telephone him. I don’t know why.
“Strange stuff had happened with me when Eric and Charl were together and no one else at the retreat. At one point we did get into a tiff, I got into a tiff, about me driving while at the retreat. I looked at him and thought, ‘Oh! the retreat is like this, you’ve been paid and we don’t get anymore! I believe he was reading my mind.
“He stood there looking at me, and then he did something odd. He changed into his astral body!”
“Astral body!”
“Yes! His body was shining just like stars. It was so bright that I had to avert my eyes, my physical eyes. I had to do so quickly. I couldn’t look at him. Then he left!”
“What do you make of that!”
“I think he was an angel”
“An angel!”
“I believe some angels do come down here for the Earth experience. They go through all a normal human has to go through, decisions to make that effect their life as ordinary humans do, as I have had to do, as you have had to do. At some point he likely found out that he was an angel, that his being on the other side was an angel. Or he has learnt how to manifest his astral body in the physical. Take your pick!”
“Why could he not have just been showing you his astral, star body, as you say Jake is yours?”
“Well, he could have been. But I bring out that he was an angel so you will get the picture better. Jake did not appear to me shiny, in his star body the way Eric did. But Jake was an appearance inside my body. I was outside my body looking at Jake inside my body. How that all fits into the equation I do not know.”
“That is why you think Jake is your Astral body?”
“Yes! But Jake will not manifest as Eric did. He is something, my astral personality, which is different to me, not so rough and gruff. I discard that. I believe I can become Jake! I can manifest into Jake! But when I do so I will not manifest in a body that people cannot look at, as Eric did with me. I cannot go any further with this.”
As they walk around the track, the geyser that aerates the water blows over them. Rick runs off, then stops at a bush covered in a mass of flowers. Flowers bloom everywhere. The place is awash in color.
Kewe, remembering a Sufi Prayer Service to take place at the local college in a couple of days, and a book he’s brought with him, when he catches up, remarks, “You gave me some Persian mystic poetry written by Rumi. After you took a class on the Sufi. Last night I almost fell over the book. Guess the surprise when the first page I flicked had a verse about a hidden self.”
Rick surprised, looks at him. “Really, I don’t remember the poem.”
Kewe takes the thin book from his pocket. He is now ruffling through pages for a poem that seem to fit what they are talking about. “Listen to this,” he says:
Rumi poetry - You, who are the diver,
whose clothes lie empty
on the beach.
See the dark veins
that grow in the ocean.


Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - See where a piece of
bright shell is lifted.
There, underneath,
the hidden self rests.
The hidden self waits
in these strange bloods.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc
Rick stares at Kewe reading from the book. “I was wondering when I would be getting the book .”
Kewe ignores him. “The poem is curious. I began checking out Rumi on the computer. As I understand, the Sufi are a limb of Islam. They are people who, those who follow Rumi and Shams, achieve a state of mystical reality here. Most of the Sufi sects, because of their perceived strange practices, are frowned upon by other branches of the Islamic faith, such as the Sunni or Shi’ite.”
Kewe continues, “During the 13th century, a university professor became well known as a Sufi teacher. People called him Rumi, but that wasn’t his name. His name came from his coming from an area known as Rum. Jalalu’ddin Muhammed Ibn Muhammed is his name as he was known then, I think. He was born in 1207 in Balkh, Khorassan region — then in Iran, now part of northern Afghanistan. His father, who was also a mystic, moved the family to Konya in Seljuk, Turkey in 1213.”
‘You have been busy!”
Kewe says, “I’m telling you because the flow of energy at the top of my head was strong last night.”
Rick hears inner sounds. So do both Sue and Kewe at times. At college, they’d discovered the temporary sounds aren’t tinnitus, which is the medical term for ‘ringing in the ears,’ but have a mystical, other frequency origin.
Kewe, after an initiation, felt the opening of his upper chakras, the spot on the forehead, where some people place a mark, and at the top of his head. Other people have told him the inner flow manifests as physical pressure in chakra areas such as the throat or stomach.
“These poems are translations of the works of the Persian mystic,” Rick says. “They’re not created from his clothing.”
“Last night,” Kewe places the book back into his knapsack. “I sensed.”
“You sensed what?”
“I sensed as I read the poems a high spirit was looking down on me.”
Rick is stretching his memory. “I remember one verse Rumi wrote. There was a person named Majnun that he made up stories about. Camels were considered part of the mundane reality of life, creatures of habit. He begins quoting from memory:
Rumi poetry -  ...as the story goes, Majnun is trying
to reach his longed for Laila's house.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - Steering his camel works fine while
he remains alert, only as time passes
Majnun more and more is absorbed
in his passion for Laila.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - The camel
knowing Majnun is not watching,
turns on her track, saunters back to
the village where her foal is kept.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Every time Majnun travels over the
hills, he falls into his reverie. The camel always returns to her foal.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - For three months, back and forth he
is wandering, never getting any closer
to his intent.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - The heat, and the distance, and his
yearning makes him decide. He's
had enough of this back and forth.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - He jumps off the camel, shouts,
`This camel is the undoing of me.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - When the camel and him have
parted, he wanders over the hills
singing:

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - My camel has her desire with her.
Mine is up front.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - It was our purposes
that were crossed.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - We should relate no more.`

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc
“That’s how I remember the verse. The tale would have it followed with a roar of approval from the crowd.”
They have walked away from the flight path of the planes. The dwellings that surround them, mansions of a previous Seattle era, many are converted to apartments. The huge gardens remain, and both Kewe and Rick walk in this district, where the trees tower over the sidewalks.
“Anything else you know about Rumi?” Kewe asks.
“I know Rumi was a professor of religion at the university in Konya,” Rick replies. “When his first wife died he married a second time. There were children from both marriages. Rumi’s writings made him extremely popular. He would sit surrounded by a crowd, and talk throughout the night. Many notables of the day came to visit.
“Rumi believed the teaching was in the story. Young people, students who were attending the university became his acolyte followers.
He writes in his poem ‘Daylight:’
Rumi poetry - Whatever the soul in human form
attempts, the soul's higher authority
watches and waits at the window.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc
“The devotees of Rumi founded the Mevlevi brotherhood, a Sufi order that is based upon his teachings. Rumi wrote: Fihi ma Fihi, — ‘It is what it is.’ The Divan, inspired by Shams.
Mathnawi is six biblical books. `The Oil man and his Parrot, The Chinese and Greek Artist, Ali’s Forbearance, Sufi’s Beast.' All are stories.
“The Mathnawi, is a history of the world, as well as a book of geography and politics. It was completed after Shams died.”
Kewe says, “I know about Shams. Tell me more about Shams.”
Rick looks at him, searches for a phrase. “‘Shams of Tabriz – is light, a Sun o’ he is, one of the beams of God!’
“That’s how Rumi thought of the dancer and the Master that became his beloved.
“The dance was more than whirling rapidly. As a dervish twirled, a spiritual ecstasy would descend that spread from the dancer over the crowd watching.
“Shamsuddin was a master. His flow, that which he produced, his ecstasy, held no equal. When Shams came to the town on a visiting tour, Rumi was thirty-seven. It was said at the time that Shams was burning and when Rumi met him, Rumi caught fire.
“Something occurred, some recognition of a soul identity that defined the bond between the two. Rumi fell into an abyss of love.
“For fifteen months Shams lived in a little house in Konya, Turkey. The ‘de Shams Mosque’ is still the name they give to the house today. Then Shams disappeared.
“Rumi’s disciples had not failed to notice the change in their Master after he met Shams. The connection established between the two men cut Rumi off from his disciples.
“They didn’t recognize that Shams brought to Rumi, Spirit, alive in all its mystery.
“Because of jealously, because of abuse and threats, Sham’s fled the town twice. Rumi sent his son Veled to search for Shams, and Shams was persuaded to return to Konya.
“It was the third time back that it happened. Shams had returned only five weeks.”
Rick continues, “Several stories have come down through time about the disappearance. Many believe Shams was murdered by jealous disciples of Rumi. No killer or killers were ever uncovered.
“With a final disappearance of Shams, Rumi expressed his love through odes. He writes about Shams in many of his later works. Even today Rumi's poetry is extremely popular. In all major languages there are translations.”
Kewe listening attentively, asks, “Rumi and Shams, you think it was emotional and sexual love, as well as spiritual love?”
Rick takes a moment to answer. “There are plenty of sexual overtones to his poetry. Rumi thought of sex as an aspect of God, I’m sure. It’s difficult to know the kind of love Rumi had for Shams. Does it matter?”
“Check that out.” Rick points to a tree that cleverly resembles a fox.
Passing one of the gardens, they have seen yew and several other types of trees cropped into the shape of animals. The tree that Rick is pointing to, has not only been cut into a fox shape, red berries grow from the mouth. The fading sun shining upon the berries makes the fox look as if it’s holding an animal that’s bleeding in the fox’s mouth.
“Ugh! Bizarre stuff!” Kewe makes a motion with his hand to brush the sight away.
Rick chuckles.
Kewe says, “I wanted to talk about the Sufi, the prayer service is Friday. The Sufi musicians at the folk life festival gave me goose bumps with their playing. A small carried drum had a leaf-rustling sound, metal rings on the fringe. I had such a feeling of being taken back in time.
“You were one of Rumi’s disciples?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had any past lives!”
“Oh! I thought you told me...”
“I’ve changed my opinion. I would say they are soul’s lives, my soul, but now I wonder if they are lives part of me had.”
“Part of you?”
“I cannot explain it. I know the first time I became aware of such a thing as past lives, I had the belief that I never had any. That I was a newly born entity.
“We are all newly born entities.”
“I know! I don’t think we are all the same. Some of us have had past lives.”
“Those flashes you have had, the dreams, you don’t think you have lived those lives?”
“I think I was tapping in a life of another!
Cannot explain it any other way.”
“Oh!”
“When the Persian musician announced they would be playing at the Sufi service, and it was at the college blocks from me, I thought I’d have to go.
“Now I think it is more than me taking an interest. Some spirit wants me at this place, and I think it is a ‘High Spirit.”’
“You should at least check it out,” Rick says. “I bet you’ll find it more than interesting. I’d go with you if I didn’t have to work.”
They have been walking on a road Kewe is not familiar with even though they walk a lot in this area. The large open gardens at the front seem especially well decorated. One lawn has a border of pale-yellow lemon gems, placed with velvety-leafed bronze coleus.
“You like the flowers?” Kewe asks, staring at the lawn, then at a Japanese snowbell tree, the white, bell-shaped flowers giving off the slightest whiff of fragrance.
“Can you see the colored aura around the flowers? I’m getting such a strong presence as we’re walking here tonight. Can you feel it, Rick?”
Standing for a moment as two squirrels run across their path, both wait watch them climb up a sprawling tree. Unexpectedly, squirrel eyes peek out from the branches. A startled thrush flies away.
Kewe brushing a winged seed fallen onto his hair, says, “Something is happening.” He flicks the seed away. “The top of my head chakra feels completely open”
Rick glances up at the darkening sky. “Venus will be bright tonight.”
“You believe in scenarios?”
“Scenarios,” Rick asks. “You mean as with scenes in a play?”
“Something like that,” Kewe answers. “Like a scene in a play where we play as actors. Only it’s real life.”
“You think that is happening now?”
At a walled garden with purple and white lilac, the power draws them into it.
The air, thick with wrapping fragrance, lilac, night honeysuckle, is intoxicating. A shuffling makes Kewe look around, but trickling water behind the bushes is also getting his attention.
The sound of water running over stone has a flow of energy he’s sure he feels around him, a flow that wants them near the water.
Rick bends down to pick seed from a mass of feathery dill growing on the ground. Crushing the seed inside the palm of his hand, he places the oil to his face, smelling the pungent aroma.
Suddenly Kewe tears off.
Surprised at the quickness, Rick follows him along a path to a small courtyard. Flowers are everywhere, magenta primulas, soft, silvery-leafed caladium, strongly perfumed roses, the night-flower pervading fragrance adding to the sense of an extra-unseen realness.
A stone fountain at the courtyard center has a circle of lanterns.
Each lantern has a flower basket underneath. From the baskets, small, blossoms of pastel-apricot begonias cast delicate reflecting images inside the cascading water.
The dusky light, increasingly has a sense of the not-quite-physical, and the trickling water, for a reason that Kewe cannot understand, has within its sound a mysterious, ethereal quality.
The sound is telling him the presence waits here.
Rick reaches down, touches the edge of the fountain sculpture. A thin veil of mist waters his hand.
“The trickle, the way the water falls,” Kewe shouts, pointing to the fountain. “That’s the sound. Wes hould be here.” In a flash, he turns, begins wandering alone into the garden. Kewe thinks... it’s almost as if, among the sweet, night shadows, that he can see a man standing. A man is standing against the bushes.
A man dressed in robes. The man is speaking words, the word sounds are dissolving, and again as with Robert, Kewe in his excitement cannot contain them.
Kewe looks at the man. He wants to ask! Power pours through his head, through the crown of his skull. He feels the energy as it courses through him, as it fogs his vision.
The spot above his eyes is boiling hot.
The man smiles, winks at him, disappears.
. . .
A note is fixed on Kewe’s refrigerator door.
For the past few minutes he’s been trying to overlook the note telling him the Sufi Meeting is tonight.
Staring, he groans. He has to go out tonight. He’s exhausted. A rough day, he wants to have his feet up, watch a movie.
But some energy is pushing.
Why not go, the college is only a two-minute walk away, he won’t stay long.
Getting ready, he closes the apartment door. The theater-in-the-square, the main art hall of the campus, has a play performing there that night.
After waiting in line for a ticket, the ticket seller tells him the Sufi meeting is across the street at the college’s sports center basketball court.
Kewe walks over to the brand new sport’s building, a three-level place he’s been to once before.
Inside the lobby a paper sign taped on the wallhas, ‘Sufi’ and an arrow pointing upwards.
As Kewe climbs the stairs, he begins to back away from going through with the service.
Seriously, he thinks to himself, he has no idea of the requirements of a Sufi prayer meeting, all it will entail, and he is shy for one thing.
The wide stairway takes him to an upstairs foyer. One of the double doors leading into the basketball court is open. A desk has been placed by the open door. A young woman sits behind the desk.
The foyer on the far side overlooks the street. Kewe, not ready to go inside, walks to the large picture window stares at the view below.
Thoughts are creeping in that he should go home.
Through the reflection of the glass, he can see the basketball playing area. The playing area has a white canopy erected above it.
People are sitting on mats that are outside the perimeter of the large canopy. A stranger to this, he tells himself, he has no idea what takes place.
Kewe begins to stride back and forth. The idea of even going inside the court is making him shake.
Pacing on the plush new carpet he is in no way ready, he tells himself, to do this yet.
Each time he turns, he gets a better look of the inside of the gym. A hundred people at least on the mats, some on small mats, groups on larger mats.
They sit talking, obviously waiting for the service to begin. Top end of the court are the musicians he listened to at the Folk Festival.
They sit on folding chairs. All the instruments are laid down.
The young woman at the desk, and Kewe pacing, are alone in the foyer. Retreating, just reaching the top stair, about to slip back down, the young woman calls out to him.
Kewe says, “I’m sorry. Are you talking to me?”
“You have come here for the devotion of the dervish?”
“Oh! Oh!” Kewe answers. “These are Sufi?”
He points to the people in the gym. “Are all these people part of the Sufi ceremony?”
“These have come for the prayer service,” the young woman answers in a foreign accent. “Waiting with the sheikh are the practiced dervish. Those you see wait for the service to begin.”
“The sheikh?” Kewe looks at her. “There is a sheikh? I had no idea. I’ve never been.”
She is laughing at the strange expression he is giving her. “I understand,” she says. “Do not worry.”
Kewe is trying to find a way that he will be able to excuse himself only the girl seems to hold him in her eyes.
“I’m not sure of the procedures,” Kewe looks down at the table. “Is this where people pray?”
In slightly broken English she informs him the service will begin with a poem of praise to the Prophet.
Poems of the Maulana will be read, and then the practiced dervish will enter and the Sema will begin.
The first salaam will introduce the dance by the kissing of the hand of the sheikh.
The sheikh, she emphasizes, is the sun. The dervishes are the orbiting planets.
The solar system is the Maulana, the beloved Rumi.
The dervish as they encircle the sheikh, will create steps of the way to union with Divine will. As the whirling proceeds, the sheikh will call Holy Spirit.
The dervish will carry Spirit into the world.
“You will dance yourself perhaps?”
The young woman gives him a big smile. “After the practiced dervish have completed their task, music will be for all to dance. Iknow you will take the opportunity.”
Kewe can see himself twirling around. “I think I will observe this time,” he says.
From the doorway, he looks at the shining, new polished wood of the gym floor. The area under the canopy is completely empty.
Not at all convinced he wants to proceed, he knows he cannot chicken out now.
On the table is a small wicker plate. A piece of cardboard behind has a handwritten sign ‘ten dollars’ with ‘donation’ underneath on the folded cardboard.
Searching his pocket for money, the young woman signals he should go inside.
“No, I want to pay,” Kewe insists, placing a ten-dollar bill on the plate.
She nods, folds the money into a box. She smiles. He smiles. With nothing left to do, he steps inside.
The moment he does, the musicians start the music. They’d been talking the last time he looked.
Now, instruments in their hands, they are at the beginning of a lively jig.
Them starting playing just as he enters the room, strikes him even at the time as peculiar, as if some intelligence had been waiting.
Kewe stands watching a few feet inside the doorway.
When the music stops, a man walks up to a podium at the left of the stage reads a verse not in English. Then music begins again. The musicians play a haunting piece.
Again within the strange cadences, the flows of rhythm that hypnotize.
In the clouded feelings that sweep across his mind, Kewe is touching, something. He needs a place to sit, but all the spaces on his side of the canopy are taken; people are standing at the bottom end it’s so crowded. On the far side of the room there are a few empty spots.
He has no idea why, when looking back later, why he decides to step under the canopy to walk clear across the emptiness to the far side. Where everyone will observe him.
Kewe is shy.
The last thing he would wish to do is to draw attention to himself in this fashion.
But he steps between the people sitting on the mats, people who have to shift sideways to allow him through.
What happens next is a wall stops him dead.
His foot is in mid-air.
He's taken a small, half-step into the empty space under the canopy, and now a voice is roaring roughly inside his head:
‘Go around!’
The musicians, and the man who has been reading the verses at the podium, are staring at him.
The music suddenly stopped, people turn to where the musicians are staring.
Now everyone is staring, at him.
Kewe, his leg still stuck in the air, has no idea what he should do. Surely they couldn’t have heard this voice. It was inside his head.
Then — as if pushed slightly — he’s withdrawn from the wall of air that has held his leg. He backs into the people sitting on the mats.
The man at the podium begins to read:
Rumi poetry - I Celãleddin of Rum.
Reality is like a musk's pod,
the delights are in the scent.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - 
To smell the scent, to possess a fleeting instant
of that which soon passes, most are satisfied.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry -

But who is the one to seek the musk itself,
not served merely with the scent?

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - 

Happy is that one who finds the musk
through the scent.
For the scent stays always with the musk.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc
The reader, a tall, lean man, scans the room. Kewe, now slowly walking towards the back of the room, stops, turns. Kewe and the reader stare at each other for a moment. Then looking down at his verse the reader begins:
Rumi poetry - The Amir said, `I have no time for God. My
time is filled with Mongol affairs.`

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - Rumi answers, `The work that God has disposed
you towards, work that provides peace and stability for many, is this not done for God?

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - What would happen if your work were to
weaken?

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - When water is made ready for a hot bath, it is heat from fuel that is burned, from dung or dried hay.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - The energy you use is like fuel heating that water for the bath. Your energy is a way to become pure.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - To outward appearances, that
which we do might not seem as if we do for God. But to not do, would be divine love disavowed.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - Someone asked, `Is there a better way to God than prayer?

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - Rumi answers, `Yes, but that is also prayer. The heart of prayer has no beginning or end, no words.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - Prayer, whatever form, is
consumed always in the light of God.
Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc
The high white canopy is triggering images of silken pillows and drapes for Kewe.
Rumi poetry - An angel's wing is brought and tied
to a donkey's tail.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - 
The reason, it is said,
is so to raise the donkey,
that it might become an angel.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry -

Man's situation, you think, must be like this.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc
Everyone is laughing. Kewe trying to get past the crowd of people standing at the back of the room cannot move through them.
Determined to get to the other side of the room — instinct tells him to keep moving — he steps in front of them. The only way to get to the other side is to edge in front.
“Some have taken a bigger sip of life.” The reader is reciting a verse of Rumi’s love for the Master Shams. “Such was Shamsuddin. He was the spirit the darkness could not shame.”
Kewe has become stuck.
Somehow, he has negotiated himself where he cannot move any further without stepping under the canopy, and he’s not about to try that again. Where he’s stuck, he is facing the reader. Rustling through his papers, the reader finds a sheet of verse he is searching for.
Rumi poetry - It is late
It is starting to rain.
I want to go home.
I know it would be well-reasoned
to stay here,
with these blonde ones,
to spend the night with them....

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry - 
But I have no home.
There is no one to talk with,
No someone to take my breath with.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc Rumi poetry -

Shams, o' sunny face. O' awesome face.
While you shone, I laughed, I cried
We were eternal with the love.

Translations of Discussions with The WE. TheWE.cc
The body had never been found. When the knowledge came that the dancer Shams was no longer around, how much release there had been.
Kewe feels a great strength sweeping over him.
He hears the reader shout:
“I love you.”
A clamp of energy grips the reader and Kewe together. A voice is talking to Kewe.
‘This is me, Rumi. I am taking over.’
Suddenly a force zooms across the room. A shooting stream of light passes through Kewe’s eyes, boors into the reader’s eyes.
Energy sweeping across the room, each feels the stream make its contact.
Instinctively knowing the energy will return Kewe deflects his head, the returning charge covering him from head to toe.
A space opens into the crowd.
Sensing the opening, before he enters into the crowd he glances across the room.
Bathed in an exquisite presence, the reader as he stumbles, as he tries to balance, tries to firmly grab the podium base.
The man is clinging for dear life to that thin wooden stand.
© Kewe   All rights reserved.