Fresh Rain
A Quarterly e-Journal of the Open Path / Sufi Way
To view the archive of all past issues of Fresh Rain, click here.
Summer 2024
Dear Friends,
Our Summer theme is Sacred Places. First, we didn’t have enough material; then, when I put out the call, I was flooded with wonderful pieces! Because of that, we are dividing the material into two; the Fall 2024 issue will continue the same theme, although I’m renaming it Sacred Spaces. We still need one or two prose submissions for Fall, and poems, please!
The Winter 2024-2025 theme will be Letting Go. Whether you are letting go of life, old habits, children, addictions, a home you have loved, hope for the planet, control … we want to hear from you.
I’ve been having a difficult time staying buoyed up in the last month, and your writing returned me to a (sacred) place of peace. I’m grateful to each of you.
And a special thank you to all who take the time to formulate your thoughts for Fresh Rain. Your words and perspective matter. On another note, Fresh Rain is ten years old! We started with the Spring issue, 2014. Wahoo!
With love for each one of you,
Amrita
editor, Fresh Rain
freshrain@sufiway.org
To download a printable pdf version of this issue, click here.
In This Issue
Eagle Fire
Pir Elias Amidon
Wild Pilgrim
Sabah Raphael Reed
Radiance from the Temple
Kiran Rana
THIS is a Sacred Space
Carol Blackwood
Sacred Spaces: An Inquiry
Basheera Kathleen Zorn
Fierce Rapture
Sabah Raphael Reed
Rose Window
Ayaz Angus Landman
Love’s Caravan
Ihsan Chris Covey
And This
Amrita Skye Blaine
Upcoming Programs
Eagle Fire
by Pir Elias Amidon
Nothing special about the place, a small open area amidst the scrub pine and junipers, a wandering breeze making the tufts of grass tremble in the morning hour, the high desert lonely and vast. A small group of men and women arrive carrying poles and canvas, speaking quietly amongst themselves. The medicine man stands facing the east, rattle in his hand, and begins to sing, slowly turning to each direction, announcing their intention, and asking the spirits of the place for permission. When he stops, the group clears sticks and brush from the area, raking it smooth. They put up the large tepee, gather firewood, chatting and laughing as they work. By mid-day they finish and leave, returning in the early evening with the “sacreds”—water, corn, fruit, and meat. Others join them.
A large fire is started within the tepee and is carefully tended by the designated fireman, an old-timer of these ceremonies. The group sits in a circle facing the fire, prayers and other ritual moments are observed, and the sacred medicine, peyote, is given to each. All my relations. No one speaks throughout the night, only the medicine man, who speaks when he is moved to speak, otherwise sacred songs are chanted by those who know them, or there is silence.
In the middle of the night, when the flames have ceased and only a great mass of red, glowing coals is left, the medicine man walks around the coals with a long stick, stirring and arranging the coals into the shape of a great eagle, its wings spread on the desert floor. The chants increase in intensity, and a numinous mystery fills the tepee and everyone in it, their faces glowing with the eagle’s light as they rock slowly to the rhythm of the rattles and the songs. Of this sacredness no one can speak in the days that follow, and though they try, they don’t succeed. When the first light of dawn comes, the edible sacreds are shared, people are invited to express themselves, and then they leave to enjoy breakfast together down the hill.
Later that day, the tepee is taken down, the dark coals are gathered and buried, and the area is scattered with sticks and brush, footprints raked clear, the place made to look as it did before anyone arrived. By nightfall everyone has gone. The fiery eagle, the sacred place, accompanies them in their hearts.
Wild Pilgrim
by Sabah Raphael Reed
For almost twenty years my husband and I have made an annual pilgrimage together to a small island in the Mediterranean. The island has been a stopping place across millennia for seafaring peoples from Europe, Africa and the Middle East ~ attracted in part by the black obsidian rock that here breaks through the middle sea. The earliest people built circular vaulted enclosures from blocks of tufa stone and these megalithic structures from 5000 years ago rise mysterious in the landscape. Volcanic vents and fissures release sulphurous air on the hillsides, with water basins and inlets heated like steam baths. The soil is rich and fertile. The winds are fierce and unpredictable. As night falls the sunsets are scriptural and in turn the seas move like liquid mercury or become monumentally wild. In fact, that word itself captures the elemental essence of the place. Wild.
I’ve asked myself on more than one occasion why we return again and again. It’s not an easy environment or simple to travel to. It’s not conventionally pretty. The energy of the place is extremely strong.
In his wonderful book The Solace of Fierce Landscapes Belden C Lane writes:
“Fierce landscapes remind us that what we long for and what we fear most are both already within us.”
Perhaps that is it.
Our return each year is a moment of remembrance. It ushers in a time of letting go ~ stripping away the habits and preoccupations of our secular lives, putting down all busy-ness, awakening to awareness. Once there I notice how a movement inward toward stillness is mirrored and amplified by an experience of kenosis or emptying out. Feelings of vulnerability arise, of erasure ~ devotional moments when the small self relaxes and disappears into the vast Now. This is why I call the place sacred and the journey a pilgrimage.
Over the past two decades there have been just two occasions when we’ve been unable to make the trip. The first was during the Covid years and the second is now, when health matters close at hand need our attention.
In each instance something curious has come to light.
It isn’t actually necessary to go there for us to be there. The sacred essence that blows hard in the hot fierce winds of the island is here too. Finding ourselves in a liminal space, first during the pandemic and now as we wait for physical repair, has equally gifted us a time of letting go, with movement toward inner stillness mirrored and amplified by kenosis or emptying out. Feelings of vulnerability show up daily, inviting the heart to open and fragilities to be held in love. I’m reminded that every place is sacred, each moment a pilgrimage. The wild pilgrim of the soul breathes everywhere.
A poem that came to me in 2014, gestures toward this same sweet surrender. (See Fierce Rapture poem below.)
Radiance from the Temple
by Kiran Rana
Jeanne and I are standing on steps leading from a dusty street to the main level of a Hindu temple to a local deity called Mangesh. It’s midday of a very hot day in Goa, and I’m still pursuing a more perfect understanding of the sacred. Jeanne’s very aware of this and with a grounded physical sensibility that sees and interacts with the poetry of the moment, she is helping.
We have just done a worship circuit in the temple. Taken off shoes, washed feet and hands, walked across the hot stone courtyard trying to stay on the narrow strips of jute carpet while we avoid bumping the individuals, couples, and little family groups taking selfies. Not always succeeding, and the soles of my feet are lightly roasted, the deity’s blood price. We have retreated to one side of the entrance steps to cool down and catch a short rest.
On the street below I notice a quick and somehow poignant interchange. Two young women are walking down the street, one leading, both talking busily with the familiar ignoring of excessive niceties that marks close friends or family. As she passes two tan-brown cows that are also ambling down the street chewing grass, and have paused mid-street at the foot of the steps, without pause and almost unconsciously, the one behind reaches out while still talking to the back of her friend-sister and touches the forehead of the cow and then her heart ... and walks on unselfconsciously and is soon out of the frame.
The cows still stand, also unselfconscious, parting the flow of busy people who show no irritation or alienation about their presence there. I describe what happened to Jeanne.
I’m still doing this when an awkward, bulky young man in a yellow shirt, walking a little clumsy, a little self-absorbed in his family group, reaches out and touches the other cow’s side as he passes her, touches his heart.
The gesture is very similar to the last part of how Catholics sometimes make the sign of the Cross with their attention already on the next thing, attention forward, gesture automatic, a limbo act. Yet—I am touched by this almost-instinctive respect for a living deity of flesh and bone and spirit, usually ignored.
Jeanne agrees with me as I say how to me that is sacred. Not of one or the other but between. And I go on about how that is more radiant somehow than the upstairs obeisance to the deity of Mangesh, where one brings intention and hope. J both agrees and demurs; for her there is a radiance in the very call, the pull of the shrine, how it brings people to it, gathers in a mix of surrender hope fear reverence and duty. I’m seeing that, sort of, while noticing that J’s attention has moved.
A young girl, maybe seven or eight, is climbing the steep stairs with her father to go in to pray, and she and Jeanne are registering each other. She—the girl—is noticing this older, white-haired, open, welcoming Western woman, not a usual sight on
the temple steps, with some curiosity and maybe a little awe. Jeanne is seeing the angelic that indwells in each and all. As little-she comes almost level with us on the steps, her curiosity taking J in, J says “that’s a lovely hat.” Which it is, a very pretty hat, perfect for the hot sun but also embroidered with flowers that complement her (little-she’s) face.
The girl’s serious look breaks open into the most delighted smile, light upon light, as her blush is defeated by her delight, as she says “O thank you!” with a little giggle of gratitude, an ecstatic acceptance. And I think, What could be more perfect? And I look over at her father, maybe early thirties, mustache, walking up the steps with the slightly abstracted set intention outwards of a person preparing his face for worship and gathering his spirit to be coherent with that facade but as he sees this exchange and his daughter’s utter joy the facade spontaneously and completely cracks open and the most beautiful smile transforms his face, grateful, shy and fully in the moment, so happy for the joy of his girl and the loving touch of this woman’s attention.... It is a naked bliss almost unbearable to see, quick and unself-conscious, a flash so pure and not asking for anything in return, an essence vision of gratitude and acceptance. Sacred.
Somehow the two smiles, the girl’s and his, are one, the same, a father-daughter conjunction of spirit that is eternal. Jeanne is also transformed, her generously unhidden love bathed in the light it helped uncover. We are silent for a moment, then one of us breathes the word, radiance. I have become quite inspired and know it is an epiphany and also somehow the gift of a very present deity. I suddenly don’t feel a need to understand or explain, just that totality of explosive beauty and love streaming behind all.
There is a thin stream of people walking in the street below … and two cows, chewing grass …
THIS is a Sacred Space
by Carol Blackwood
Four days ago, a sudden grim diagnosis showed me that I must make the decision to let my dear dog, Dharma, go to wherever we go after this life. Alone now in this house, I recognize that everything around me is about her—her pillow on my bed, the ottoman I moved up against the bed to allow her easy access, the water bowl that needs refilling (but there is no need for that now)…
My friend asked if it would be good for me to go somewhere special where I can get away from all of the reminders, to heal. I told her the one sacred, healing place for me, Nada, in Crestone, is no longer available to me. I have done more than a dozen group and solo retreats there. It was a special place for me and for others in the Sufi Way and beyond. But it was sold a few years ago and the new owners don’t rent out the hermitages to the public.
Thinking about a sacred space, I recognize that, though Nada was pretty magical, there, that night on the floor at the veterinary hospital as I spooned Dharma and kissed her on the head, feeling her last breath followed by stillness, that was a sacred space. Her pillow on my bed is a sacred space. My backyard where Dharma no longer follows me is sacred. This hole in my heart is a sacred space. There really is no place that isn’t sacred when the heart is open and humbled.
Sacred Places
An Inquiry
by Basheera Kathleen Zorn
When considering the theme of “Sacred Places” I think, first, of places like Lourdes, the Ganges, the Kaaba–places that have frequently been host to miraculous events. I wonder: Is it the repetition of the miracles that creates its sacred atmosphere? Or is there some great sacredness there that creates the miracles?
I once visited Mevlana’s (Rumi’s) tomb in Konya, Turkey. There was quite a crush, but a bit farther back I found a place on the floor to settle comfortably. Upon closing my eyes to the hubbub I became aware of the piped-in music of the ney. All other considerations dropped away as I allowed the evocative music of the ney to carry me away. Before long the essence of Mevlana, distilled from the very sacredness of the atmosphere, spilled over me like warm honey. My heart melted into Mevlana’s as One …
While this certainly felt sacred, I wondered: What if I had experienced nothing at all? Would I cease to think of Rumi’s tomb as sacred? On the other hand, what about miracles that happen in ordinary places? At any moment they might (and do!) happen in any place at all.
One year, at the annual Sufi summer camp, I entered a particular grove of trees around a slight clearing. Sitting on a log, I softened my eyes, staring without focus at the bark of the tree nearest me, and allowed myself to fully appreciate the sensation of being surrounded by majestic Douglas Firs. Much to my surprise, a few moments later I sensed a response–a deep and resonant vibration. After that, I returned to “my sacred grove” each summer to check in with the trees.
While my experience made the grove sacred to me, would it have been recognized as such by anyone else? Could it be that we pass unknowingly through places that are sacred to other beings every day? Do, in fact, all places have the potential to become sacred? Is sacredness, then, tied to place at all?
One of my two favorite things about the sacred is what it is not. It is not transactional—cannot be obtained through purchase or exchange—because there is no intermediary. It is completely unrelated to the hustle and bustle of life. My other favorite thing is the way it is recognized. It feels as though a quiet part of me lies dormant while I engage in matters of the outer world—aware, but not taking part … until this mysterious something that we’ll call “the sacred” appears! Suddenly, these cloistered parts inside me come alive—singing with the joy of their intimate reunion with the numinous substance of which they are made.
When Realization first came to me, the direct experience of it could not be expressed. Luckily, my mind was only too happy to provide me with an allegory: It was as if I were a house. I opened the curtains to let in the light (which emanated from the sun, an outside source). But all at once I realized that there had always been light inside the house, emanating from within, and that it was identical to the light I sought outside myself. In fact, there was no inside. There was no outside. There was only one light!
Peter Kingsley says that when we go on pilgrimage, we need to learn to anchor our experiences by planting them deep inside us. If we do this properly, we won’t feel the need to return or keep searching for a physical location where our sacredness may be revealed. In fact, don’t we recognize the sacred in a place by the way the sacred space inside us resonates? Could it be that the sacredness inside us actually emanates from within, and that it is identical to the sacredness we seek outside ourselves? That in fact, there is no inside? There is no outside? There is only one Sacredness, singing with joy in recognition of itself?
Fierce Rapture
Find the wild place
inside
yourself.
The place of precipice and storm;
the place of bewilderment
and surrender.
Now, let the doors
be blown
wide
open
and feel within
the finesse
of fierce
rapture
arising
in the healing
dance of
dawn.
— Sabah Raphael Reed
Rose Window
Contentless
And bowed
I present myself
Like an old Mediterranean church
Ravaged by the austerity
Of abandoned hope
Sustained by the beauty
Of fearlessness and faith.
No longer jewelled
My sandstone pillars
Are the squabbling place of rooks
But my rose window
Worn and weary
Still blazes in the western sky
— Ayaz Angus Landman
Love’s Caravan
(Sufi Universel Murad Hassil, Katwijk aan Zee)
O my people of the Way,
This unforced path of opening
Known only to our heart of hearts,
Makes us all emissaries of Loving,
Soaring in ever widening circles.
Our makeshift caravanserai appears
When the moment ripens,
Our only temple This, Now—
We raise the tent and dig the well,
The waters of everliving presence
Joining our solitudes
In the council of our deepest silence.
We share food, drink, laughter and tears
Around the blazing fires of our being,
Sing our remembrances into the night’s dark womb—
When morning comes we scatter the blessed remains
of our invisible gathering,
Our circumambulations of spirit complete,
Our embraces brightening our secret chasms of joy,
Our love-sparks dispersing again among the nations,
Our dancing footprints vanishing in the windblown sand.
Yet we also take each other homeward
By all the ways our loving has blended
Our edges and our depths—
Let the poignant beauty of our parting
Fill our love cup to overflowing,
That we may recognize the Friend in a stranger’s glance
And new wonder in an old companion’s gaze.
— Ihsan Chris Covey
And This
— Amrita Skye Blaine
retreat
I became my own hermitage
—Peter Levitt
retreats were out
of reach while raising
my disabled son
I was single, young
and poor
I yearned for quiet,
peace and calm
time away I couldn’t
afford from a needy
thwarted boy
so I built my own inside
carved a sacred place
friendly, tranquil, still—
I could slip away
while busy, shore up
reserve and recoup calm
I wove practice into
daily life, thresholds
a pause for prayer—
over years this altered
cells, transformed me
into grateful
betrothed
For being betrothed to the unknown. May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder.
—John O’Donohue
I don’t know
much—
a few facts, maybe
but no answers
to the big stuff
how could I,
the briefest breath
here and gone
fresh compost for
the next, new marvel
I turn my face
to the sky—
rain pelts down
drenching me clean
water freely falling
first cast of light
fringing the trees
closer in,
fresh snail trail
meandering
I am committed
to wonder—
each day
a consecrated gift
waiting to unfold
