I live in a part of the world where I can mostly take freedom for granted. And I think it fair to say that this is how it should be, everywhere. As I read the speeches of the Romans and the Greeks, I see how much they loved the idea, and the promise, of freedom. The framework of America builds on this message of hope, believing that the souls thrive best when they have room to go. I think even that some American teenagers wouldn’t believe that freedom barely exists in some parts of the world. It’s the twenty-first century after all; wasn’t that all a thing of the past?

But for many, the lack of basic freedoms — even something as primary as one’s belief in God — still prevails to this generation. Case in point are my fellow Bahá’ís in the Middle East and thereabouts. My wife’s family fled persecution to become refugees. Can you believe she couldn’t even pursue a medical school education while living in her own country? 1

Sadly, such persecutions are as fresh as the past two weeks. It seems that the Yemenese government has detained a Bahá’í family for deporation back to Iran, the very country and government they left in hope of greater freedoms elsewhere. You can read the news article here. Nor is this all that remote of an incident, since one of the people being deported is the father of my aunt’s friend.

I’m posting this notice to get the word out there, since many citizens of these governments simply don’t know what’s going on. Their media just doesn’t report it. But we who live in the land of freedom can.

Tags: Bahá’í

I have come to believe that all knowledge and understanding derives from a single Point, and that this Point is so complete, and yet so rarefied, that although it smacks us in the face at every moment, it remains unperceived. Bahá’u’lláh wrote:

Say: My creatures are even as the leaves of a tree. They proceed from the tree, and depend upon it for their existence, yet remain oblivious of their root and origin. We draw such similitudes for the sake of Our discerning servants that perchance they may transcend a mere plant-like level of existence and attain unto true maturity in this resistless and immovable Cause. Say: My creatures are even as the fish of the deep. Their life dependeth upon the water, and yet they remain unaware of that which, by the grace of an omniscient and omnipotent Lord, sustaineth their very existence. Indeed, their heedlessness is such that were they asked concerning the water and its properties, they would prove entirely ignorant. Thus do We set forth comparisons and similitudes, that perchance the people may turn unto Him Who is the Object of the adoration of the entire creation.1

I think the human mind cannot contain this Point, since there exist no human concepts concerning its nature. I also believe, however, that the soul can know it — and know it intimately — to the extent that you would recognize it without hesitation, no matter how strange its form or appearance. Such as He describes here:

Each and every thing, however small, would be to him a revelation, leading him to his Beloved, the Object of his quest. So great shall be the discernment of this seeker that he will discriminate between truth and falsehood even as he doth distinguish the sun from shadow. If in the uttermost corners of the East the sweet savours of God be wafted, he will assuredly recognize and inhale their fragrance, even though he be dwelling in the uttermost ends of the West. He will likewise clearly distinguish all the signs of God — His wondrous utterances, His great works, and mighty deeds — from the doings, words and ways of men, even as the jeweller who knoweth the gem from the stone, or the man who distinguisheth the spring from autumn and heat from cold. When the channel of the human soul is cleansed of all worldly and impeding attachments, it will unfailingly perceive the breath of the Beloved across immeasurable distances, and will, led by its perfume, attain and enter the City of Certitude.2

If this life is a place of color and form, then the Point of all knowledge is that Light which, through reflection off of various objects, bestows on the world those very colors. If all human knowledge and wisdom is like a wonderful, intricate tapestry, yet it only has beauty because of that Light shining upon it. If the tapestry were placed in a cave devoid of the Light, it would appear no different from the surrounding walls of stone.

Whenever a person has discovered this Light, the meaning and reality of the various colors is revealed; the entire spectrum makes sense, and is seen to relate back to its Origin. Nor can the color’s brilliance be confused with the objects which reflects it. It’s like in the Seven Valleys where He wrote:

It is clear to thine Eminence that all the variations which the wayfarer in the stages of his journey beholdeth in the realms of being, proceed from his own vision. We shall give an example of this, that its meaning may become fully clear: Consider the visible sun; although it shineth with one radiance upon all things, and at the behest of the King of Manifestation bestoweth light on all creation, yet in each place it becometh manifest and sheddeth its bounty according to the potentialities of that place.3

If the Sun is the origin of all colors and form, and if the world of creation is known only through Its Rays, then to adore the Sun is to find all knowledge wrapped up within it, like the many colors that exist in the spectrum of the Sun’s light. But as I said, the mind cannot do this, since it knows things only through color and form. The soul, on the other hand, is a thing of the Light itself — an emanation from that very Sun — so it can learn the language of Light, which then illumines all the possibilities of color.

This Light, this spiritual essence which dawns on reality through the Being of the Manifestations of God, reflects throughout time resulting in the creation of society and the generation of human understanding. To know Them is to know the origin of all things, and to disregard Them is to render the various wonders of the universe an impenetrable mystery.

Tags: mystical

Dear God,

I am sorry if in the past I have limited our relationship. I’m not used to the way things should be between us. You could say it’s all new for me, my soul just being created and such. There are a few things it’s taking me a long time to learn.

For example, I keep forgetting how good You are. I think it’s because Your goodness exceeds my understanding, so I see some of the things You do as cruelty at first. It leads me to imagine You as fickle, mean-spirited — even petty at times. That is why, when I call on You, I don’t always expect an answer. I even assume you ignore me most of the time. I can’t think of one friend who would treat me this badly, but I expect it of You. I’ve entirely forgotten how good You are, and I’m sorry about that.

You gave me existence for free, and the ability to work, and the power to appreciate and take advantage of life. But I still complain about what wasn’t made free, or isn’t perfect, or doesn’t match my understanding. Give a starving man a fish and he eats; give a sated man a fish, and he wonders what else you’ve got. You created me with so many riches, I fear I keep waiting for what’s in Your other hand…

Lastly, I apologize for putting a name to what You are. This, more than anything else, has limited our relationship. Mathematicians write Infinity as a symbol so it can fit in their equations, just as I use “God” to fit You in my mind. But I’ve forgotten that You have no end. I try so hard to squeeze you into my mind and my heart — to eke out a drop of what You are that I can call my own — that I keep forgetting about the power and the beauty and the untold depths of the Ocean. I confuse myself by what I know of You, and for that, again, I’m sorry.

When my parents didn’t give me everything I wanted, I often screamed that it was so unfair. How sorely did I fail to perceive their love in those limitations.

Yours (quite literally), John

A mirror cannot capture the light of the sun,
nor can words — but for a moment —
contain all that a heart may feel.

Written for my wife Nasim on her birthday yesterday.

Tags: Romantic

This entry is dedicated to my friend Sina, considering how many times we’ve pondered this subject together.

The question of right and wrong has always burdened the religious mind. Some consume most of their energy seeking to toe an invisible line that, to them, guards salvation. But I have come to believe that while righteousness fully deserves our attention, it does not deserve our focus. To explore this idea further, I offer an analogy.

Today I was driving on the freeway down to Phoenix from Flagstaff. As I drove, I noticed the lines on the road, the traffic signals, and the signs for speed and services. I was always aware of these things — even when I wasn’t aware of them — because for each and every moment of that three hour drive I had to stay within lines not too much wider than my own car. Such a narrow path demands constant, considerable attention.

But the fact was, once I set myself on that course I largely ignored these restrictions. My focus was on the beauty of the day; on my thoughts; on the feel of driving which I enjoy so much. The “rules” had my attention, but my memory of the trip has nothing to do with the rules I followed.

If I had spent the whole trip angonizing over the exact distance I was from each lane, over my exact speed, over the exact moment when I signaled to switch lanes — people would not reward me for my exactitude, but would think I had a mental disorder. In fact, I bet I was far from “perfect” in my observance of every rule. However, the aim was to safeguard my journey, not judge my performance.

I think the “rules of the road” are like the rules of life. Religion sets out a path of spiritual fulfillment and tells us how to successively traverse that path. Now, I could completely ignore all these rules; I might even get away with it for a while, but sooner or later it would lead to ruin, just as it would in my car. There is value to following these laws, even if I don’t enjoy them as much as I would careening along at 120mph.

And if all God had wanted was a group of souls to go from point A to point B, it would have been more efficient just to create them all at B, safe and content. But since we have this life ahead of us, there must be a greater wisdom in traveling than there is in arriving. It’s like our joyful memories of childhood: they are not memories of finally reaching adulthood, but of how fun it was to be kid! Who we are is not a distinct, end product, but the sum of all those moments of slow and steady growth. The journey makes us; the goal was in the traveling itself.

We follow the lines on the road to avoid a crash; we stay on the road so we can travel at high speeds and avoid damage; we stop at traffic lights to avoid collision with other travelers: All of these details deserve the utmost attention and consideration, but not a single one of them deserves our focus. Life is much more than just what we do or how: it’s in the flavor, the experience and the effect. The real question is: where are these rules taking us? What is the goal of righteousness? What fruit is to be had from a life lived rightly?

One Sufi poet said it thus, writing as if quoting God, saying:

“O handful of earth! If I had not heaven for recompense and hell for punishment, would you ever think of me? If there were neither light nor fire, would you ever think of me? But since I merit supreme respect you must adore me without hope or fear; and yet, if you were never upheld by hope or fear would you ever think of me? Since I am your Lord, you should worship me from the depths of your heart. Reject all that which is not I, burn it to ashes and cast the ashes to the wind of excellence.”

The rules of morality do demand continued obedience, but even as important to success as such rules may be, once the end is accomplished they live on only in the fact of success itself. Their own substance is forgotten. Does the virtuoso remember how he keyed the piano? His soul is home only to the music, and all else a required means to that end.

Whenever I have thirsted  
though my tongue sought water  
my soul sought for this.

Whenever I have yearned  
though my dreams dreamt of futures  
my soul dreamt of this.

Whenever I have labored  
though my efforts aimed higher  
my soul aimed at this.

Whenever I have swooned  
though my heart longed for beauty  
my soul longed for this.

Experience is a gilt onion.  
I peel it back, layer by layer,  
and always I find this.

This is the purpose.  
This is the meaning.  
This is the intent.

Perhaps you wonder what I mean?  
In truth, you wonder about this.

As I look around at the world, I find many things to admire. Certainly there is more misery than joy to be found, and I know few people who bath in happiness for any great length; but there is also so much good… Enough that sometimes I get excited enough for my friends to laugh at me.

Last night I was regaling a friend about the tastiness of fried plantains (which, by the way, you have just got to try). I buy them at the store here in Grenada every time I visit, and in fact just finished another plate of them. But it’s not the plantains themselves that get me excited; it’s the indefinable quality of them, a quality of goodness that to my eyes seems universal of all good things.

For I think the world represents the greatest secret ever told, but that it takes a lifetime to unravel what is just before our eyes:

How strange that while the Beloved is visible as the sun, yet the heedless still hunt after tinsel and base metal. Yea, the intensity of His revelation hath covered Him, and the fullness of His shining forth hath hidden Him.1

The real question I want to bring up today is: why are the most religious of people sometimes the most dour about life? I would think that the more a person falls in love with God, the more their life would be full of… well, love, peace, joy, happiness. Instead, religiosity seems to sharpen the eyes of criticism when regarding this crude plane of dust. The more in love with perfection people become, the more distasteful they find the imperfections of the world. Until at last they simply long — with day following interminable day — for their release from this fleshly prison.

I can’t really fault them for this, seeing as how the Earth is not held up very highly in Scripture. When referred to, it is “the dustheap of this mortal world”. Or: “… but a show, vain and empty, a mere nothing, bearing the semblance of reality. Set not your affections upon it.” Or even: “… the whole world, in the estimation of the people of Bahá, is worth as much as the black in the eye of a dead ant…”.

Ok, so I’m not arguing this point and it would be foolish to try. The world is just an amalgam of matter-formed energy with no apparent value beyond what human beings make of it. Only we, in our poetry, eulogize the moon and the stars and the sun above. The animals are content merely if their bellies are full. And clearly we’re the only ones who think that gold has any value whatsoever.

What I want to argue is the difference between intrinsic and applied value. I agree with the sentiment that the Earth is a ball of dirt. I myself am made from the dust of stars. When Bahá’u’lláh refers to me as a “moving form of dust”, it sounds exactly right.

However, the Prophets themselves came to us in these forms of dust. They did not appear in the guise of angelic beings made of light — however much this may characterize their inward nature. Rather, they appeared as dust so they could speak to dust, using the language of dust. Yet I know of no pilgrim who, in the presence of His Shrine in the Holy Land, would declare to me that dust alone was buried there.

Consider likewise the example of ink and parchment. Parchment is the dried skin of animals, such as goats or sheep. Ink is (or was) oxidized iron dust mixed with water. It doesn’t get much cruder than that. When the Holy Word was written down at the time of Jesus Christ, it was fixed on animal skin using watered dust. If that’s all we thought of it, would anyone have paid attention?

It wasn’t the medium itself that had value, but the Message. The medium was crude enough to be disgusting when you think about it, while the Message was beyond all hope of words. That which is godly and divine was fixed upon a point of crude matter. And this was done so we could have access to it, and translate it into concepts and forms that made sense.

I think the world around us is no different. It practically sings with the mention of God — however much it may be, in itself, a ball of dirt. It’s the Message that’s key.

Then why do the Scriptures emphasize and re-emphasize this point, over and over, that the world should not be esteemed? I think it’s because humans have a tendency, over time, to revere the Messenger beyond the Message.

Take the example of parchment and ink again. When something like the Qu’rán is written on it, the parchment becomes a relic by virtue of its content. And the older it is, the more revered, until at some point, people make pilgrimage to it just so they can see it and be near it.

But what if the One Whom it foretells as coming after should arrive at that place of homage and set the book aflame, declaring that the time of the old laws had ended? How would the people react? Muhammad did something similar when he went to the Ka`bih in Mecca and destroyed all the sacred idols of his forebears, claiming that idolatry was forbidden by God. Here He was, the One charged with the Message of God, destroying the objects of veneration of His own people. And this because crude matter, in the form of idols, had come to mean far more than it should.

There is a constant danger of this kind of misplaced veneration in praising what is good about the world, for fear that people will mistake the world itself for what is being praised, rather than the Good reflected from it. Human beings do the same thing when they imagine themselves to be beautiful; and yet they, themselves, only manifest Beauty for a while; they are not the home wherein it dwells.

But with that aside, neither can we throw out the baby with the bath-water. If we held that all parchment was only the dead skin of animals, the word of God could never reach us! If we avert our eyes from the world, thinking it to be dust alone, how can the rays of Beauty reflect from it and reach us? What medium of the Good will ever be acceptable to us, if we judge it solely by the good of the vessel alone?

How can we long for God to reach us if inwardly, in that place where we long for spirit and perfection alone, we unconsciously ask that He not appear to us in mortal forms? If we deny the functional value of the world at the same time that we deny its inherent value — if we persist in this demand — how can we ever understand Who Bahá’u’lláh, and the other Prophets, really were?

They stood in relationship to God as the world does to His attributes. Each is a Messenger bearing a divine Message. It’s up to us not to confuse the two.

Even as the sun, bright hath He shined,  
But alas, He hath come to the town of the blind![^2]

Tags: Beauty, Matter

A cornerstone of maturity is knowing how things will appear through the eyes of another: how others are affected by action and consequence. The perfection of maturity is when those other’s eyes are God’s.

Sometimes I feel as though we are all candles, placed in a room, intended to illuminate the vast treasures that are contained therein. Some burn brighter, some not at all, but the more of us that do, the greater the scope of these grand visions.

But it seems that at some times I am more mesmerized by the lights than I am by what they reveal. Or I bemoan my own feebleness next to others; or I feast on my pride next to still others.

But whether I am dim or bright; whether we are few or many; whether I am held fast in the dust, or in the finest candelabra — whenever I turn my eyes toward the aim of our being, and that Face our inner light can best reveal, it is then that all seems just as it should be.

It was the first day.

Even as the Earth
I drew the clouds of self about me;
blocking out a Sun
Who never ceased to shine.

And in that darkness,
I wept with great sadness:
turning the dust beneath me to cloying mud...
Caught in the mire between me and Thee.

Now it is the second day.

Green shoots have fought their way
through dirt and weighing sod.
From the muck arises a teeming life;
even the worms have purpose.

Tomorrow, it will be the third day.

When the sun shall break from the clouds,
and the mist of self — of airy substance only —
will know an end to such days as these.

I’ve recreated my computing blog, and moved it to an appropriate new home, at my professional site, [[http://www.newartisans.com/blog/blog.php][New Artisans LLC]], the company I use to front all of my computing work. I’m using a Mac application to create and manage that site named RapidWeaver, which I hope means that it will be much easier for me to keep up to date! Please read on there for my latest article on org-mode in Emacs, and TCP/IP-based attacks and the Linux utility =iptables=.

Tags: Seven Valleys

The idea of detachment has puzzled me for a long time, mainly because its basic tenant — as pursued by many of the people I know — seems to embrace a fundamental contradiction: If the aim of religion is to foster unity, amity, peace and contentment, how can a pursuit be called religious if it divides, provokes enmity and unrest, or leaves a person dissatisfied? Yet this is exactly what occurs when a person constantly rebels against their desires: they become an individual at war. It is a kind of internal jihad — as the Islamic word “mujahiddin” actually connotes. A person who strives to be detached in this way — when the very nature of the heart is to form attachments — is committing internally what would appear as an atrocity seen from outside. If one group (the conscious mind) suppresses and dictates terms to all other groups within, this is awfully familiar to those theocracies who have already laid a bloody trail towards their God. I think humanity’s relationship with detachment has suffered from an immature reading of the Holy Texts. When people feel guilty and undeserving, they will naturally look to take this out on the person they feel is to blame: themselves. Detachment becomes a perfect weapon in that pursuit, a tool for the righteous mind to chastise the “unruly (and hated) self”. But what if the nature of detachment were actually religious? What would a religious detachment look and feel like? I’ve thought of one simple example: Let’s say that I like hot dogs. I love hot dogs, those nice, beef quarter pounders slotted in a thick potato roll. If someone tries to tell me to be detached from hot dogs, they better go someplace else, because even if I were to deny myself from such juicy beauties, the memory would still carry on in my heart. But along comes someone who offers me a perfectly cooked filet mignon steak. Now, despite my love of hot dogs, a steak is a vastly better thing. There is no way I would fill up my stomach with a hot dog, when I knew a steak was on its way. *I would even wait, passing up the hot dog, if I knew for certain such a steak was soon to come*. In this situation, my detachment from hot dogs can only be driven by a love for steak. I cannot be detached from something in the absence of a better alternative. And I must have complete faith in that alternative — feel its certainty humming within me — if detachment is to become a natural resonance of my heart. So I begin to think that truly religious detachment is not at all about denying one’s self the world, but of coming to anticipate the beauty of God — and that the specious beauties of the world sometimes hinder that perception. If a friend of mine later came along and saw me not eating my hot dog, he would say, “My goodness, how can you be so detached?” But to me it would not be detachment at all. I’m simply communing with my steak-to-be. Also, there is another aspect of detachment which has always felt like a deep conundrum to me: It is a basic feature of human psychology that to earnestly involve ourselves in something, we must care about it — but to care deeply is synonymous with being attached. A young man who is attached to his automobile will take fantastic care of it: he keeps it clean, keeps engine running, the interior vacuumed… By contrast, a person who “doesn’t really care” often ends up with a messy car and too-late trips to the mechanic. (I know I certainly fall into the latter category). I’ve seen the same thing at my work. As a programmer, I notice a vast difference between the quality of work of someone who cares about what they do, and the quality of someone “just looking to get the job done” — who only wants to create a functional solution and to move on as quickly as possible. At a cursory glance, this detached emphasis on a solution rather than its details seems best; but in actual fact, such hapdash solutions almost always come back to bite you once the initial feelings of correctness are gone. Programs written without care more often than not do not stand the test of reality. And yet, if a person cares *too much*, they agonize so dearly over every detail of the problem that they lose sight of their original purpose altogether. This leads to equally poor solutions, owing to their inherent complexity and attempts to forsee issues which never materialize. A similar situation happens if the car lover mentioned above cares *too much*: He reaches the point of never driving his vehicle at all so that he can always keep it safe. I’m not sure detachment is simply the middle road. You have to care to be involved. Heck, I have to care about something before I can even remember it. Care too little and you lose connection, resulting in a decrease in quality of attention; care too much, and you cut off perspective, decreasing quality of purpose. What is the answer? Maybe it lies in what we care about. In the case of the car, you need to care about the car, but there are two forms of caring: direct, in which your concern is for the beauty of the machine itself; and indirect, where you concern is for the suitableness of the car in a driving situation. As long as you care about driving more than what you drive, you have a decent marriage of form and function. So too, in life, we need to care about our bodies, our work, our education: but it is an indirect caring, as these are means to the realization of our soul’s ascent. It cannot be achieved through not caring about the world, but by relegating the world’s importance to its relative value. But even this can go too far: Are we to regard the people we meet as merely our stepping stones on the path to God? Such insincerity is not what other hearts are looking for. It strikes me as a delicate virtue, like a fine blade, that can cut before you realize your finger is lost.

As I was playing chess on my favorite online server today (http://freechess.org), I found myself losing just a tiny bit less than my typical runs — where I can easily drop ten games without so much as a shred of dignity. The difference this time is that I was calm. It may sound simple, but it lead to a relation about life that connects to my attitudes in chess: In chess there is simply no room for negative emotions. Anger will not help you; frustration will certainly not help you. Being determined to drive your opponent into the dust will not even help you. In fact, such attitudes make things far worse, as they cause you to rush your judgments, underestimate your opponent, and open yourself to irrational decisions with no connection the board. If you adopt the attitude that you “should” be winning — and that whatever’s happening is somehow the universe being out to get you — well, on those days my ratings take a sharp dive. However, this is not to say that chess should be played without feeling. In fact, a fine aesthetic sense can greatly assist you, by allowing your unconscious to express its opinions through showing you that a certain position “feels wrong”. Or feelings of graciousness can lead you to appreciate your opponent’s skill — and thus permit your mind to see things from his side, sometimes making his plans much clearer to you. In short, chess is best played from a standpoint of subtle and joyful calm: not to be rushed; where winning has little emotional value; and where the game itself is worthy of a complete absorption of heart (in the form of caring about the quality of your position) and mind (by pouring through calculations, rather than ranting why things have reached their current state). I only sometimes realize how helpful this is in general — especially when dealing with people. But in chess I’ve found it’s essential. Without it, I just plain lose.

The more certainly we define ourselves, the more we fear an unraveling of that knowledge in the face of change and death. As I watched television today, I was struck by how constantly two themes are reiterated: doom and escape. We flirt with our fears, and then dream of keeping them away through money, distance and association. There are programs describing how wars might destroy us, or our failing energy reserves, or the climate, or nature — or the slow decline of creativity as we submit to technology. And all of these are accompanied by heart-pounding music of the sort you might find in a horror movie. The underlying theme is quite obvious: existence is coming to get you. You’ve struck a claim of self-independence against the vast improbability of time and space, and now your debt is being called. Can you run fast enough to escape it? Those who can run fastest and furthest — who gain popularity through outstanding achievement, or who imprint their memory on the minds of many — have seemed to cheat for a moment the gaping maw of oblivion. But what’s really been achieved that time will not ultimately scorn? What sort of numbers game can mankind hope to play against Eternity? I’ve watched films like *Dead Poet’s Society*, that make philosophies like *carpe deum* seem worth following. (That is, those who make today their own are able to defy the anonymity of their passing days). But even this film was not truly about the present. It seemed to imply that the present could be used to make a claim on the future: that what we do today can have a significance beyond the moment. If so, it is just another idea of escape. Time cannot be distracted, or bought, or logically disproved. Can anyone reading this even recall what their infancy was like? Or truly what their childhood was? Time has swallowed parts of each of us already. Even if a thread of continuity really remains, what we were does not. *There is no self that can know itself through every stage*. The self who engages in reflection is no longer the self of non-reflection. Then if everything we write is erased, why write at all? I think understanding this is everything. Otherwise, if there is too much investment placed on the background and future of what we do, we will end up spending most of our energy protecting what we believe can be possessed. In fact, the belief of possession is best evidenced through a need to protect, and thus *our fears themselves are of the essence of establishing a sense of permanency in time*. If we were never afraid, it might mean there was nothing substantive enough to fear losing. The more we are sure of who we are, the more daily life turns into a battle against entropy: a war with the very days of our lives, each day spent arduously defining something less durable than a mayfly. Yet it is the beauty of our nature that we flit among the mystical planes, changing in definition as rapidly as our thoughts. Like the quantum physics we develop, to reflect upon our being is to change the nature of its subject. A watch is named because it marks time, not because of particular times it has or will show. I think an answer to the rabid fear I see on television and in society must begin by letting go. To acknowledge that physics has not described our universe; that psychology has not explained the mind; that history has not ever told us what really happened; that sociology cannot define cultures. Whatever role these ideas play in our development, the actual reality of the present moment is forever beyond classification. It flirts with death. It is unstable, unsure, and largely ignorant. We do not know what happiness is, or how to find it. We are never sure of the meaning of life, or of our role in it. The more certainly we attempt to describe these things to ourselves, the more tightly we create our bonds of fear. And thus conversely: the more powerless we know ourselves to be at describing and knowing reality, the more we are ready to experience and accept whatever it actually is. Yet even at the heart of such impenetrable mysteries: this breeze is indescribably fine; these words please me to write them; and a fine bed is waiting for me.

As I pondered the story of Khidr again (search for “Khidr” here if some background is needed), a new thought came to me: The actions of Khidr are used to demonstrate the full reach of God’s wisdom whenever He undertakes an action. However, the Prophets of God — who represent His Vicegerents on Earth — never act in a manner similar to Khidr. That is, Khidr does as He does because God’s wisdom is deeper than we can fathom; yet the doings of the Prophets of God fall mostly within the limits of man’s comprehension: They by-and-large refrain from acts which would seem unjust to our eyes. Why does Khidr appear to act as a free agent — his actions framed only within God’s understanding — while the Prophets follow a pattern of action mostly in conformance with our own understanding? My first thought was that we wouldn’t listen if They did otherwise: if They acted beyond our grasp. But then again, we don’t really listen anyway. And moreover, we’re repeatedly warned against judging Them according to our own moral standards, because such judgments can only confirm as truth the same truths they were founded on to begin with. Such a cycle simply does not allow for the entirely new. It’s quite a puzzle, actually. We develop a model of life based on the hodgepodge we were brought up with, knowing full well it’s riddled with holes by the time we’re teenagers. We patch it up with our own experience, we mend it and sew the tears, trying to reach an acceptable compromise with our fellow beings by the time we’re adults. Then a Messenger comes with something completely new — however much the core principles might remain the same. It’s too dangerous just to replace everything we’ve worked on, because who knows what the end result will be? So we cautiously compare note by note, to see if the effects of the new teachings will be profitable or damaging. But here lies the problem: our understanding of what is profitable or damaging is a key concept of our own morals! We’ll only let through what we can recognize as good — even though “recognition” requires that what we’re looking at *not* be new at all. The end result is that nothing really new can enter our lives until we accept a bit of madness and try it, damn the consequences. Yet not every “Messenger” is what they claim to be. Arbitrarily substituting moral codes, without fully knowing the merits of the author, can be worse than never accepting anything new in the first place. It’s quite a risk, causing many to avoid the problem and go neither route: just stick with what mostly works — even if that something is barely suitable for the ever-changing times we live in. Were Khidr to cross our paths at some point, He would forcibly insert the good, acting in ways to defy every code we know that God’s Will might work toward some unseen benefit. We would have to reject Khidr, constantly, in direct proportion to our faith in our private credo. Only a faithless man would laugh no matter the outcome. The Messengers, however, cross our paths but do not forcibly insert Their Teachings. They craft them into a pill we can actually swallow — if we put a will behind it. But do we? And how do we ferret it out from what everyone else would love to shove down our throats? Having the freedom to override moral codes would be the fantasy of any despot. So maybe the Messengers act within our bounds, not because the Will of God is constrained by us, but in order to make it possible. Perhaps the truths we receive are in direct proportion to our willingness to be offended by the pursuit of them. We may all be standing at the Ocean of Life, but each has his own straw. O Son of Beauty! By My spirit and by My favor! By My mercy and by My beauty! All that I have revealed unto thee with the tongue of power, and have written for thee with the pen of might, hath been in accordance with thy capacity and understanding, not with My state and the melody of My voice. — Bahá’u’lláh

A while back, I wrote about being content with the will of God under all circumstances — a state of being referred to in Arabic as being “raazi”. But peaceful though such a state must be, it is by no means the height of contentment. One may be accepting, as Job was, no matter the trials sent by God; but to experience every moment as the best possible world is another thing entirely. The contentment of being *raazi* is one of peace. One may not know how things will work out, but the soul is assured of the hand of God behind all things. Or one may not have everything he wants, but in his heart, he knows that even poverty can lead to riches. Beyond this is another state, called being *ghani*. To be *ghani* implies a wealth taken to the point of excess. One who knows this kind of contentment does not view poverty as a soulful emptiness; rather, to him the greatest emptiness is an abounding fullness. It is not a condition of peace, but of a joy which threatens all stability. If God who wears the cloak of the world in order to reveal Himself, then those who are *raazi* know it; but those who are *ghani* see it with their very eyes. Becoming *raazi* is one of the powers of faith, when one’s inward vision penetrates the Unseen. It’s like the peace of a farmer who has planted all of his crops, knowing from experience what must happen in time. It doesn’t matter that the seeds lie quiet under the ground; the farmer’s awareness spans time, it is not confined by the immediate. The deeper and fuller one’s awareness of such unseen processes, the less complaint there will be over particular, sudden forms. Being *ghani* is being present at the time of harvest. The real question being: why should time be necessary? Between the seed’s being planted, and fruit falling from the tree, our bodies must endure a requisite lapse of time. But the soul is, in theory, free of such limitations; its sentiments need not be dictated by the body. The two move in separate realms, although it seems natural for the body to set the pace of things. Time is like a someone telling a joke; once you get the punchline, you’ll laugh from the first word the next time you hear it. I believe God is unveiling Himself to us through the mechanism of the world — that the world exists to suit the nature of our understanding; but once we grasp where this tale is headed, we needn’t wait for all of the particulars. There can be a moment of insight, at which point further explanation is unnecessary. From that moment on there can be direct relation, like a painter with his brush once he grasps the principles of the art.

I have been thinking lately that material things satisfy us only because their reality draws from a deeper Source. What brought this to a point for me is a statement by Bah’u’llh, where He projects God as saying to humanity: O Son of Light! Forget all save Me and commune with My spirit. This is of the essence of My command, therefore turn unto it. This is one of my favorite statements of His, and I say it to myself each night before going to bed. What does He mean to “Forget all save Me and commune with My spirit”? It would seem to suggest dispensing with all consciousness of the world, to reach a purer consciousness of “My spirit”. But in other places He rejects asceticism entirely, so I don’t believe He means for us to turn away from the one reality we know, to point ourselves toward one we can know nothing of. I’m beginning to think that by “spirit” He means that which makes this world come to life (in the same way our own spirit makes our bodies come to life): it’s Quality. After all, there is somehow a difference between a mere collection of atoms and a *refreshing* glass of water. Material forms have a capacity to lift our spirits, but my question is: how do they have this capacity? I understand that light stimulates photoreceptive cells in my eye, which stimulate electrochemical signals throughout the neurons of my brain — but at what point does this chain of events end in the experience of beauty? What final chemical, or electric charge, is it that comprises the transporting feel of great art? I think these base media are simply carriers. They bring to us a message — albeit filtered by the limits of each medium. But no matter how reduced from its original perfection Quality may become — whether in the form of a drink of water, a painting, a chocolate bar — the underlying character of its manifestation is always the same. Take light, for example. Most of our light originates from a blinding source too far away to grasp. It illuminates everything indiscriminately, yet is reflected from each place according to the nature of that place. Although the manifestations of light are unique in themselves, the underlying properties of its illimunation remain the same. That is, some places reflect the light in a manner closer to its pure form, such as mirrors, while others absorb most of its energy, presenting us with a silhouette of darkness. Yet what reaches our eyes in every case are those original quanta of energy from our faraway star. However filtered, the essential properties of the light remain undisturbed: in effect, everything we see when we go outside is the Sun, seen through a lens of Earthly form. Now if we are beings meant to commune with the potentialities of God’s spirit, then it is with that Spirit we should form our closest bond. Continuning the analogy of light to spirit: A painter may use a brush and canvas, but his real task is carving the light, so as to present what it’s capable of revealing. The pen and paper are not significant in themselves — however important in their role as media — it’s the Reality conveyed by their means which is the *raison d’etre*. One could even suggest that such a being discount the medium entirely, until they have transcended its utility — beyond, to what it serves to manifest. “Forget all save Me and commune with My spirit”. Bah’u’llh statements now suggest to me that all things reflect His spirit, but we should never get caught up in the things themselves. Rather, penetrate them, move with the eye of the soul beyond their immediate appearance, until one reaches what they were created to convey. Another example of this is found in watching a television program. Assume it’s a good program; a great program! Something which moves you and causes you to experience a genuine beauty. First, there is the television signal transmitting the program. Since it’s invisible to you, there’s no way for it to reach you or touch you. A television is required. Thus, by necessity, we bring in the physical medium of the television. One may even love their television, but in fact it only serves to bring those programs into the scope of your vision. Let’s say the television is a bit old: it has scratches on the screen, it’s dusty. As you watch, you might get distracted by these things. You may want another television altogether. But if you concentrate on the program you’re watching, it’s funny how all these minor flaws quickly disappear. Soon, no matter how tiny or beat up or black and white your television may be, it becomes all about the program. Yet even the program is only a form of expression. There are sets, actors, dialog, etc. One could get caught up even here: attracted to a beautiful actor, disturbed by another’s voice. But if the material of the program is really worth it, even these are passed in your mind: you focus deeper, to what the program is about, to the ultimate message beneath. In the end, if all of these stages of manifestation are passed beyond, and the heart is filled and the soul informed, then all of these physical realities will have served their purpose: of bringing you into connection with something you deeply desire. To get there requires bridging each of the gaps placed in your way, all of the physical obstacles in the way of spiritual experience. But it’s not that these obstacles don’t belong between you and the experience — they are even necessary to it! But depending on your point of view, they may or may not get in the way. I think what Bah’u’llh says in this quote is that the world is only a vehicle, much like an Existential Television. It uses matter and form to present a message to us, for the sake of our souls. How much we receive of that Message is directly up to us, and deeply we choose to look.

It strikes me that the private destiny of each individual is something other than achieving the perfections he imagines for himself. My first clue to this has been the fact that I’ve yet to meet a single person — of any age or level of achievement — who believes they deserve Heaven on their own merit. That is, if such were the measure of spiritual success, I have found none who would grant themselves that reward. How can it be fair that we remain perpetually undeserving? One of the most widespread issues I encounter is people believing they are not good enough, that they do not deserve happiness in life. This mentality presents a very specific picture: That things begin in a crude state, and since this crude state must be overcome to enter a perfected state, only those efforts which bend the crude toward the perfected are acceptable. Anything else is “sin”, an opportunity for advancement missed, a betrayal of promise. However, something in our nature rebels against this philosophy. We know that a joyful condition is better than sorrow; we see how an hour spent in joy can yield ten times its output in work. Even adults at a regular job requires breaks and diversions, lest the mind become dull. If I put this aside for a moment: perhaps Heaven desires something other than completeness; an aspect of what we’re given — rather than what we acquire — as our key to that Place. This became clearer for me recently because of a very strong dream. It made such an impression on me, during the dream itself, that for several dreams afterward I found myself telling different characters about what I had heard, repeating it to myself so I would remember it after I awoke. I was in a terribly dangerous swamp. There were traps everywhere, and all kinds of fatal mistakes to be made. There were dinosaurs, and huge crocodiles, and deadly plants. Somehow, in the middle of it all sitting on a log, was God, in the form of the actor Alan Rickman (I’d just seen the wonderful movie, “Something the Lord Made”, whose title itself is a commentary on what I learned). Anyway, when I walked up to God, He said that there was only one way to escape from my predicament and enter a better place. I asked, “What’s that?” He said, “You must bring Me something I do not already have.” I thought about His request for a while and came up with several ideas: love, happiness, independence, virtue, etc. But I could tell that none of these were close to the mark. Then it hit me — I could tell by the feeling which came over me that I had found the right answer. It was: my limitations. My limited nature was the one thing God did not possess for Himself; and to offer this to Him was the reason I’d been created. Alan just smiled, and the dream moved on to another. After I woke up, the realization didn’t seem quite as intense or special, but it left me with a gnawing sense there was something behind it. That is, it’s not so much the perfections I develop in this life which matter — such as becoming knowledgable, skilled, or accomplished — but the depth of my appreciation for my limits. To the extent that I discover within them a special beauty. It’s like that saying where the greatest strength is knowledge of one’s weaknesses. This put me in mind of a prayer by Bah’u’llh, where He writes: … Thou hast ordained that the utmost limit to which they who lift their hearts to Thee can rise is the confession of their powerlessness to enter the realms of Thy holy and transcendent unity, and that the highest station which they who aspire to know Thee can reach is the acknowledgment of their impotence to attain the retreats of Thy sublime knowledge…

The following entry is little more than a fantasy, but I use it to help place some of the experiences I’ve had in my life. I don’t begin to claim it holds any truth; it simply helps me wonder. Have you ever been somewhere and suddenly had a sense of the way events might go? And then been frustrated, not because they turned out that way, but because you knew it would happen? It’s almost as if time gives you a little taste, and then that flavor fulfills itself. Or maybe it’s just subtle clues the subconscious tunes in to. Or have you been talking with someone, and briefly certain images flit through your mind, sometimes with word associations. They feel unbidden. Was it a spark of creativity, or an impression of some kind? So you speak it out loud, and the other person thinks you read their mind. You don’t know if you just picked up on the idea, or had the idea yourself and somehow projected it. Or the phenomenon of thinking about a person and then hearing them call on the phone shortly after. I’ve heard this so many times from my friends it seems commonplace now. One friend even said she knew whenever I came to visit — it was usually out of the blue — because she always dreamt about it the night before. Or when I finish matching a film where incredible things are possible, I notice my reflexes and coordination become much smoother. I’m able to take my car keys out of my pocket and insert them into the lock, almost without looking in one fluid motion. How different from those days when nothing seems to go right. Is this me being more confident, or is “life” cooperating somehow because my outlook has been subtly changed? These events only touch the surface of the strange things I’ve experienced. They cause me to think about the nature of human consciousness, and whether we may be part of something larger, which spans our existence across barriers even of space and time. I think every part of the universe serves as a model for the whole. That is, each thing symbolizes an aspect of the underlying pattern. An example of this is the way larger systems are composed of smaller ones. We have cells in our bodies, which are made of molecules, they of atoms, then of quarks, etc. Or going higher, we have social networks, then planets, solar systems, galaxies, galactic clusters, etc. But these are only spatial delineations. What if there are bridges between consciousnesses as well? No one part of our body may be said to have awareness — no more so than a single neuron represents the whole mind — yet the author of this entry is certainly aware. My whole being produces a coherent aspect, which I refer to as my self. Such synergy could represent a deeper pattern. What if, just as my cells comprise a body and mind who is self-aware, many minds likewise participate in a higher order which has an awareness of its own kind? And these together, and so on, until there is a master consciousness whose waking dream is the pith of existence? This is something I would call the “Ur-soul”, which we are all a part of even while we remain distinct — in the same way my liver’s cells are a part of my existence, yet exist separately in themselves. But that is just an example in space. Consider time: as an infant I was very different from the person I am now. My childhood — the *presence* of my thinking during childhood — is impossible to recall now. I cannot see and feel things the way I did then, when the whole world almost fit in my neighborhood. So too with the teenage years, which were filled with a turmoil I simply don’t experience now. Who were those people? They were all separate, in a way; but they also contributed to this present whole. If I can be divided in both space and time, where is the “me”? Where do I begin and end? If I refer to myself, am I a part of something, or a culmination of parts? What if I am all of these at once? I think the development of individual awareness is a part of who are. However, believing in a concrete individuality is too much. It’s like that liver cell believing it exists independently from its host. Yet this is the way our selves function: we disbelieve we are merely abstractions of a shifting order — a kind of wave-function riding on unfathomed waters. We envision ourselves wholly isolated; and this, I think, denies us a true consciousness of what we are. In Zen I once encountered the idea of mutual realities. Take a rain umbrella, for example. Rain umbrellas only exist because of rainfall, even though such umbrellas still exist when there is no rain. As an object, it can be said to have a separate existence from its purpose; but in truth, it does not. If there were never any rain, there would be no such umbrellas. They exist as a part of “rain” — in the form of our desire to be protected from it. In a sense, they *are* the rain, in just one of its many aspects. Because where does the rain begin and end? Is it only a single drop? That would not be rain. Is it many drops? How many? Must they fall from the sky? If so, then the cloud is also a part of what “rain” is. Since we have added another object to the idea of “rain”, where does it end? In fact, there is an entire complex, too diverse to describe, which comprises the experience we abstract as “rain”: the smell, the umbrellas, the wet dogs, soggy shoes, the approaching thunder, the nights when we sit watching fat drops pelt the window. Rain does not begin or end anywhere; it is none of these individual objects: it exists as the entire sum. And yet even there it does not end. There are still many experiences for us to know, each of which will be individual, and will add to our sense of “rain”. So too with the concept of “self”. Our attention rests in the optic nerve, but we are as much who we feel ourselves to be as we are the experiences that give us those feelings. To feel the wind on one’s face is to be, for that moment, a union of the two: for what kind of experience could we have if there were no stimulus of experience? If there were no wind, no memory of wind, no nothing of any kind, what “self” would there be but mere potential? In deconstructing my self this way, I mean to suggest that our boundaries are not as clear as we feel them to be. We are conditioned to separate our thoughts in terms of time and space, but these are only delineations. What is the truth of our reality, and the realities we are a part of? Do I sense people’s thoughts sometimes because of a particular sensitivity — or because we are individual parts of one whole, like the cells that make up a larger organism? Are there even higher orders of consciousness, the awareness of which requires us to transcend the confines of selfhood? When I relax my thoughts, there seems to be a larger flow I join up with, something only loosely affiliated with my present understanding. It is not that I see with other eyes; it’s more like I begin to hear a song echoing from many places — a song which makes its own kind of sense. Things begin to taste “right” or “wrong”, in ways I cannot explain; as if there were a greater harmony, a grander scale of happiness, than what my single body can feel alone. And if goes on like this, without limit, until the best I can do is abstract the whole under a single name — a global entity with its own purpose, not possessing singular boundaries — whose reality is expressed by and throughout the whole, each part having its own purpose and yet summing to produce the whole. What is this? Do I exist to be a part of its self-knowing? To contemplate and feel the Ur-soul?

Several times now in the past few year, I’ve encountered a particular argument: Whether it is nobler to forgo faith in any higher agency, so the mind may remain free and clear; or to surrender judgment if one believes they’ve discovered a higher Power. To maintain freedom and aloofness seems to strengthen the individual; while giving up everything — even the mind — in the name of love seems positively transcendent. In one case, recently, a person asked whether Baha’is should accept the authority of their Prophet, Bah’u’llh, utterly and without question. To do so implies accepting even those things we have not yet understood — thi