Rumi: I just call him a genius...

Rumi was born a long, long time ago in Balkh, Afghanistan, or, so they say: I, generally, don't trust most historical accounts; reference Allan W. Eckert's challenges to our American historical myths and you'll see my viewpoint. I could go on...

Anyway, Rumi is called Jelaluddin Balkhi by Persians and Afghans, but I just call him a genius, though, that term seems somewhat insufficient. I'll state right out of the gate that words can't express my feelings towards Rumi.

;I first encountered his work while I was staying with family friends on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia. It was summertime, inferno-like, and during daylight hours I was involved in a cryptic digging project in the yard that I didn't understand; nor was I really interested in knowing the purpose. I was asked to help, so I did. I'd take breaks, sitting on the ground, while I observed the tiny lizards sneaking around the rock pile. I add these details, because it seems appropriate that after a day like that, I should first read Rumi. The book was right there on the shelf, patiently waiting to expand my cerebral boundaries.

So, I read the book. And then I read it again. Then I got more of his books and proceeded to read and reread them. Along the way, I introduced quite a few people to his work, and I feel very good about that. Coleman Barks has done the same thing, but on such a large scale; Coleman is a wonderful individual in my view.

So, as I was saying, you know, I don't feel that qualified to write this Rumi piece, meaning, I'm not totally capable and words don't exist etc. You just have to read his work. See, in "No Room for Form," Rumi says, "I am the clear-consciousness core of your being, the same in ecstasy as in self-hating fatigue." Who else writes like this? Who else ever will? So, that's it for me. Pickup, The Essential Rumi translated by Coleman Barks and John Moyne. It's published by Harper SanFrancisco, and it's a very precious book.