Food for the Soul | May 13th, 2020

5/13/2020

Hello again, my Friends,

Let’s play, dance, and sing. Let’s imagine things and be creative. Last Sunday was Mothers’ Day. What a perfect day to celebrate creativity. I hope you all had a beautiful day. I encourage you to linger a little longer in the emotions, dreams, and happiness of that day.

A PRAYER   –   A PRACTICE   –   A POEM

A PRAYER

Psalm of Solitude (Excerpt) by Nicola Slee: Praying like a Woman

May my solitude be fruitful,
like a tree which is planted by streams of water,
whose branches yield their fruit in due season,
and whose leaves do not wither.
May my solitude be fruitful.

 May my solitude be prayerful,
like a well whose depths cannot be fathomed
which offers its clear and thirst-quenching waters
to those who will search in her darkness.
May my solitude be prayerful.

 May my solitude be spacious
like a broad place into which you lead me,
where my spirit exults and my body rejoices,
where I may dance alone and in the company of others.
May my solitude be spacious.

 May my solitude be joyful
and sing out its singular witness,
like birdsong at dawn and day’s ending,
which is pure, spontaneous and lovely,
filled with the gratitude of all creation
for the simplicity of living and the glory of being alive.
May my solitude be joyful.

A PRACTICE

Mothers’ Day has come and gone; most of us are still observing solitary confinement or at least social distancing; and I thought we needed something uplifting to break the monotony. Did you laugh, dance, and sing on Mothers’ Day? Did you talk on the phone or via zoom with those you mothered at some point in life? Or did they call you and had some loving words of gratitude for you? I hope the words still ring in your heart.

My suggestion for practice today is extremely simple, but daring in a way: Pick yourself up, choose your favorite music and dance by yourself throughout the whole house; let your body inspire you, anything goes, free style, crazy style, slow style; whatever feels good, follow your internal rhythm. Then sing from the heart, with full voice, your favorite song, your heart’s melody. When you are tired out, laugh about yourself as loud as you can. You want more? Now take a deep breath, sit down, and journal about your experience, the truth without holding back.

A POEM

The following poem is by the Sufi poet Hafiz. His given name was Shams-ud-din Muhammad. Hafiz was born and lived in the city of Shiraz, Persia (c. 1320-1389). Sufism is usually regarded as a form of Islamic mysticism. This poem is taken from the anthology The Gift: Poems by Hafiz, The Great Sufi Master, translation by Daniel Ladinsky.

Stop Calling Me a Pregnant Woman

 My Master once entered a phase
That whenever I would see him
He would say,

“Hafiz,
How did you ever become a pregnant woman?”

And I would reply,

“Dear Attar,
You must be speaking the truth,
But all of what you say is a mystery to me.”

Many months passed by in his blessed company.
But one day I lost my patience
Upon hearing that odd refrain
And blurted out,

“Stop calling me a pregnant woman!”

And Attar replied,
“Someday, my sweet Hafiz,
All the nonsense in your brain will dry up
Like a stagnant pool of water
Beneath the sun,

Though if you want to know the Truth
I can so clearly see that God has made love with you
And the whole universe is germinating
Inside your belly

And wonderful words,
Such enlightening words
Will take birth from you

And be cradled against thousands
Of hearts.”