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.
Spring 2026
Dear Friends of the Sufi Way,
As spring awakens, our theme of Longing and Belonging pulses with life. Longing pulls us onward like a distant fragrance; belonging whispers we have never truly left home. Together they form the heartbeat of the path—ache and joy entwined. These pages hold voices tracing this tender dance through poetry, prose, reflections, and images.
Thank you to every contributor who has shared your heart. Your words, silences, and visions make this shared space richer. Looking ahead, the Summer 2026 issue will explore Love in its many faces—human and divine, tender and fierce, everyday and transcendent.
What calls love awake in you? How does it show up in silence, challenge, or ordinary moments? How do we open wider when love feels distant, and how does it transform us and the world? What legacy of love might we nourish now?
Please send essays (~500 words), poems, prose, drawings, paintings, photographs—whatever moves through you— to freshrain@sufiway.org by June 1, 2026.
Questions or need help refining? Write me at warda@sufiway.org. Every voice is welcome.
In This Issue
Threads of In-Betweenness
Ihsan Chris Covey
Deconstructing Longing and Belonging
Kalandar Warren
The longing of an adolescent Manjun
Kunderke Noverraz
RECIPE
Michael Wenger
The way of longing
Umtul Valeton-Kiekens
Poems of Longing
Felice Rhiannon
The Disheveled Christ
Angus Landman
Soul Nutrients for the Spring Eequinox
Gurprit Bhambra
Prayer of longing and gratitude
Marjolein Mabelis
Who am I
David Chapman
Three poems
Amrita Skye Blaine
Wild Strawberries
Lysana Robinson
The Seasons Turn
Rachael Reuter
Upcoming Programs
Threads of In-Betweenness
by Ihsan Chris Covey
The origin is the movement of the world from non‑existence, where it was still, into existence. This is why it is said that the whole affair is the movement out of stillness.
– Ibn Arabi
While re‑reading a Buddhist text recently, I was reminded that sutra means “thread,” related to the English “suture”—to stitch, sew, or bind. Sufis never adopted a formal scriptural tradition like the sutra, but they have always emphasized our thread‑like connections in the cosmic fabric, each seen and unseen link passing through us, backward and forward, from and to the Only Being.
We live at the unfindable nexus of being, yet the blur and immediacy of our sense perceptions, interpretations, memories, and survival instincts make it hard to recognize how deeply we function as thresholds of continuous becoming. As much as our human minds try to simplify and categorize our fathomless existence in words, concepts, rules, and rational systems of thought, there is no escaping our liminality—our essential nature as an open field of in‑betweenness, ripe with creative and transformative potential that is always flowing.
Words are, of course, inadequate here. Even hyphenating every duality we have constructed—one‑many, empty‑full, inhale‑exhale, living‑dying, light‑dark, lover‑beloved, and so on—only gives us a glimpse of the mystery forever beyond their reach. Even so, we can sense a dynamic process of unfolding, and a kind of tension arising—a vibrating aliveness moving through us that defies description.
This is the Barzakh of the Sufis: the often bittersweet realization that we are neither here nor there, never wholly this or that, always a shape‑shifting Yes‑And. You can feel the almost imperceptible movement of these oscillations—back and forth, back and forth—pulling and being pulled from one state to another so quickly that it almost seems like one solid thing taking shape: an identity, a self, a life. But stopping at these mirage‑like appearances always leaves us wanting, reaching, longing. The invitation is to keep moving.
Yet if our nature is liminal, always changing, experienced through a world that is itself always in flux, where do we find belonging, rest, release?
Oscillation is a subtle but rich metaphor for the dynamic liminality and tensions of being human. An oscillation must pivot around something. Our innermost stillness is the pivot of our movement, and our movement is how the pivot becomes known—warp and weft weaving our being even as it vanishes. Longing is the oscillation around the still‑point of our belonging: movement that both reveals and conceals that we are already home. Stillness is the innate belonging at our center, and longing is its living oscillation in our ever‑changing terrain, both inner and outer.
Finding our way along the threads of experience toward the One who contains and underlies it all asks us to return, again and again, to this flowing current of awake, ever‑changing aliveness within us. It invites us to open to the unknown vastness between reason and imagination, to polish the mirrors of our hearts, and to begin again.
Perhaps it might be said more simply as a kind of Sufi sutra:
In the deepest of silences,
the abode of the One,
the stillness of my innermost being
hums with indelible belonging;
its becoming
voiced in space
and felt in time
as waves of longing
longing 1
heart aches longing
to touch the sky
open to the world
of love
tightness
where heart lives
tears unshed
in the reaching
breath shortens
while mind focuses
on lack on loss
yearning for wholeness
skin’s envelope
ardent with hunger
bursts
into light
—felice rhiannon
longing 2
heart rests
in contentment
breath even steady
longing ceases
chest no longer
tight and rigid
frustrated tears
no longer threaten
to spill over eyelid’s edge
realising knowing
already here now
connection simply is
no need to search
or hope
or strive
already here now
simply being that
which is already
here now
there is no magic
practice
or chant
or mantra
there is no magic
movement
or prayer
or sacred text
only the here now
where we already are
alive in
the ever-generous
universe
of love
—felice rhiannon
Deconstructing Longing and Belonging
by Kalandar Warren
In the late 80s I studied Portuguese in a class in Bristol with a teacher from Setúbal, across the river Tagus from Lisbon—and I’ve always loved the word “saudade,” Portuguese for longing and the root of the song form of fado, with its inevitable bittersweetness for homeland.
The theme of Longing and Belonging unfurls a tableau of varied commitments that reveal, in a telling way, what I give attention to and what matters to me. These contexts often reflect being practical and making them work better. The opposing force would encompass being “all at sea,” “unhinged,” and “rudderless”—possibly throwing my life off-balance and making it more unworkable.
The sense of longing may perhaps be a stronger impulse in my make-up than belonging, because I feel I’ve channelled energy into passions, goals, and studies to facilitate achievement and enhance skills rather than sustaining friendships and connections; in the former, that was where the self-esteem lay.
But as John Donne reminded us long ago, “No man is an island, entire of itself;” we have to embrace relationship in all its many forms. One of those forms has been receiving singing lessons from a teacher whose approach is quite idiosyncratic: never using force to express vocal dynamics, endeavouring instead to find the balance of Light (from the upper part of the head) and Warmth (more from the sinuses, especially pharyngeal resonance), without effort or muscular tension.
Finding the balance point in this exploration of the here and now can be a tricky dynamic. I’ve had the experience a few times of tearful emotions getting the better of me, and having to abandon a song completely for a while. That happened recently with “Moon River,” the classic Johnny Mercer song from the great American songbook. It’s not about doing the songs and technical exercises perfectly but about inhabiting the inherent feelings so that the songs and musical structure breathe life—a completely different dimension from just knowing them and rendering them without verve and awareness of flow. If that sense of “being in the zone” is touched, I find a kind of expansive, resonant energy flows imperceptibly into my whole being. My soul has been touched in this contact with infinite goodness beyond my own cognition and rational mind, but it’s not a given.
The other activity is golf. At the root of my practice, which is where my involvement merges with this sport, are two things. The first is a sense of under-achievement and often a perceptible dissatisfaction with the game as it’s shaping up, yet having actual memories of being capable of much better than often manifested. But this newfound interest and willingness to engage with golf is almost incidental and not a considered thing, and so for now I’m willing and going with it, despite some reluctance on my part to share this. The second is a desire for greater consistency and with that greater confidence, allied with the willingness to be curious at what could be possible because although I’m less supple than in my playing days from the 1960s and 70s, I’m probably physically stronger. But golf makes for a lousy model of connection with fellow beings and part of its tricky character as a game lies in its essentially fickle and capricious nature. So here is a longing, and maybe a sense of mission to prove something to myself as well as perhaps to others.
The common ground between these activities is not forcing the action, and sticking with my practice—not being flashy but developing a greater obedience to form and yet allowing the feelings to move and merge. Longing is both an ally and an obstacle. But the feelings need to be there in service to the song, to the music, to the swing dynamics and supporting its evolution beyond my own preferences and not insisting on a preferred and planned outcome.
But as ever, it’s a work in progress and thus patience is its own reward.
longing 3
resting in my heart-belly
nestled
like a hibernating
bat hanging head down
holding fast
to the cave walls
of my being
comfortable knowing
that awakening happens
in this moment appearing
as i am here now
opening to interior space
becoming a winged mammal
emerging from sleep
longing companion of years
flies into openness
sky without boundaries
realising truth
seeing through heart-ears
the sound of love’s guidance
longing quenched
—felice rhiannon
longing 4
at any moment
it could arise
a stone of longing
in my heart
might burgeon
a leaden weight
crushing joy
annihilating happiness
with its bulk
a cargo of thoughts
stories ideas
then a breath
the next breath
the next
breath
—felice rhiannon
longing 5
what if it’s not…
friend asks
what if it’s not true?
belief in lack—
what if it’s not true?
something is missing—
what if it’s not true?
ask the question
hear the answer
heart door
flings open
lock smashed
truth steps
into clear
space
lack ceases
nothing is missing
there is no thing
to long for
to miss
—felice rhiannon
The longing of an adolescent Majnun
by Kunderke Noverraz
When I was an adolescent, I was boy-crazy. Crush followed upon crush, none of them leading to a relationship of any substance. I lived in a world of fantasy and unrequited longing. Painful as that condition was to me, it was far preferable to the alternative, which would have involved being awake to the barren reality of my life. I lived with my aged grandparents in Holland whilst my parents lived in Venezuela and I felt unloved by both. I felt very alone.
Amongst the flow of crushes, one stands out powerfully. It was in fact much more than a crush, it was a grand passion! He was 19 years old and the son of Italians living in Venezuela. He spoke Italian and Spanish and I only spoke Dutch and a few words of broken Spanish. What is more I was 13, overweight and spotty, with a crushing inferiority complex and leaden self-consciousness. My chances of capturing his attention were zero.
I did not mind however since I did not permit myself to have such an unrealistic aspiration.
It was enough, more than enough, to dream and long and dream again. This longing dreaming filled my waking and sleeping consciousness for a whole year.
The setting was my yearly visit to my parents in Venezuela. A magical new world had opened up for me in the familiar surroundings of my childhood. Instead of playing with other Dutch children in the sea, I was now allowed to hover on the fringes of a group of Spanish-speaking teenagers. In the social hierarchy of the community my father would have been at a much higher rung than their fathers, but in the teenage hierarchy I was at the very bottom, grateful for any crumbs of attention that came my way. Every Tuesday night was designated ‘teenagers night’ by the club that shaped our social lives. And every Tuesday I was there, with thick make-up and uncool clothes, feeling that I was entering a world of mystery and illumination and infinite beauty.
His name was Silvano. Oh, the sound of that name alone was enough to transport me into ecstasy. And then his eyes, his hair, his voice! He was the perfection of teenage beauty, and I felt privileged to be able to behold him. Passion tore through my soul but the accompanying fantasies were not sexual. Rather I dreamt of being embraced and melting into him. No longer the awkward spotty adolescent, but instead a new being merging and emerging in the light of his image.
Once towards the end of my summer holiday, shortly before my return to Holland, the unbelievable happened. He asked me for a dance! It was foxtrot for me in those days, rock and roll being reserved for the older teenagers who glided and whirled over the dance-floor with effortless agility. But what a foxtrot it was! Feeling his hand on my back and the other holding my hand, what other experience could have been more ecstatic! I was transported and lived with the vibrant memory of this dance for the whole year that followed.
But the story ended like most such stories end. I went back to Holland, nursed my obsession for him for a full year and transformed myself into a slim and pretty teenager. But when I eagerly returned to Venezuela on my next summer vacation, he was no longer there to respond to my new presentation. He had gone to find work in one of the big cities and I never saw him again.
I used to laugh at myself when remembering this episode. As if it was funny and somewhat shameful to have gone through all that emotional turmoil and longing. But I have a kinder eye these days, and have much more compassion towards my younger self. It is not hard to see now that this young girl was desperately seeking an essential love since she experienced it as so bitterly absent from her life. Like Majnun in the wellknown Eastern love story, she searched for a Beloved who would open up a transcendent new life for her. No matter that that Beloved was just an ordinary 19 year old boy, to her he was the key to a whole world of inner magic which could heal and transform. The key towards love and transcendence. The key towards an experience of God.
And many others followed. My propensity for falling in love with boys and men continued well into mature age. They became temporary pathways to a reality that was far more exciting and exalting than the circumstances of my troubled life. The Sufi symbology of Lover and Beloved only added to this confusion. Whilst the traditionally male oriented imagery of the Divine as a beautiful woman, did not do it for me, I substituted my own images. Zeus, Apollo, Inayat Khan, Lao Tzu were transposed onto ordinary men and I could feel transported again. For a while at least. Because inevitably reality would catch up and I would wake up to the clay feet of this particular god. And after disillusion there would come rejection and the search for a new idol to arouse my ecstatic longings.
Again, it would be easy to judge and feel shame. But the eyes of compassion look differently.
Not only were those experiences allowing me to taste another way of life but those disappointments were necessary. They were pointing me each time at the futility of a search for transcendence through the idealisation of another human being. With each disappointment I was being offered an opportunity to wake up. To wake up and finally find my home in myself and my life in this flawed world and to find love in spite of imperfection and disappointment.
To be fair I have to acknowledge that these relationships did bring me change and new perspectives. Each time I learned and discovered and explored new terrain and new vision. But in the end, they could only bring me to the realisation that all was there from the beginning. That new colours and images and sounds and smells do not make for a new life in God. I always had a life in God but just did not know it.
There was a delusional story of love and longing that was mesmerising me and in the end it was inviting me to return to where I belong. And that belonging is in the here and now of this present moment with these ordinary fallible people that I am in relationship with. Love is still essential and of course I still reach for it. But not so desperate, not so demanding, not so dream-driven. It is not only good enough, but even beautiful, to be here, present with you, now.
longing 6
in silence longing
disappears
fleeting moments
when heartmind
stills
only breath
and heartbeat
fill the space
deep quiet
velvet silence
ideas
of grandeur
random recipes
scraps of conversation
fears of war
disappear
longing vanishes
open
hushed spaciousness
luminous with quiet
transforms longing
into being
—felice rhiannon
longing 7: latif
tender shimmering
the subtle invites
us to open
to be permeable
barely perceptible
yet always present
it is called
latif in a language
of the East
music to open ears
ineffable divine pulse
gossamer within all
refined as pure gold
hidden yet evident
in each breath
this longing
for light
—felice rhiannon
A RECIPE
by Michael Wenger
Recently, I was catapulted into a very powerful traumatic flashback because I felt rejected by one of my nearest and dearest friends. It was peculiar: in the same moment of strong reaction, I was also fully aware of what was happening. That is to say, this friend did not reject me at all. My thinking clearly saw there was no rejection. And yet traumas arise as they arise: I felt helpless to influence the feelings and sensations that manifested so strongly. There was anger, sadness, confusion, vindictive thoughts, strange bodily sensations, and so on. My heart turned cold like ice.
In my perception, these feelings and sensations seemed gigantic, powerful, and very persistent. They remained present even as, throughout the whole period, I trusted the love for my friend and knew nothing bad had happened. It was as if the entire world was filled with the feeling of being rejected, of not belonging. Then, slowly, by simply “looking” at it, it became not personal anymore. It shifted to feel more like a collective human condition. And yes, perhaps this is true: everybody knows these feelings. Probably everyone has experienced abandonment or rejection at some point in their past. It comes with love. Can we feel abandoned or rejected only when we love? I believe so. And I also believe that love is the most fundamental intention behind most actions—of most people (and mammals, other animals, plants, and everything... but that’s another story).
Could it be that the most painful trauma of abandonment was our birth? Was this the original blueprint for all subsequent abandonments—when we had to leave the warm embrace and union with God, to be thrown into our bodies and into the life of the individual? I wonder: could we not take the way we make peace and experience love with our human friends as a blueprint for how to do this with THE Friend? Living in this way, we are given infinite opportunities throughout our lives to open our hearts and practice love—so that we might be prepared and able to unite and dissolve in the Divine.
It took several days until my heart was warm again. How? By embracing, feeling, being present with, and exploring whatever stood between me and loving my friend—while continuing to trust the love between us. It seems to be a good recipe for all kinds of occasions.
The Dishevelled Christ
When I close my eyes
To blink
The world outside becomes
No more than a probability
What’s left inside
Is all that I am
The raw the rugged
And the restless
That refuses the pseudo promise
Of tomorrow
For the dishevelled Christ today.
Yes its true
Mostly I succumb
To the easy peel of a washed
And tidy mediocrity
But praise be
its never long before
The Dishevelled One
shows up,
turns up the volume
and demands much much more.
—Angus Landman
longing 8
unveil the garden
honeyed fragrance beckons
pass through the gate
into rose-touched air
step toward
the scent of the divine
a touchstone
to the incense of the good
unresisting
walk into the garden
of longing
steps delicate as gauze
intoxicated
with sweet rose attar
heart bursts open
to love
—felice rhiannon
longing 9:
the whirling
wide white skirts whirl
tall felted hats maintain stillness
tombstones for the ego
forsaken for a life
spun with devotion
heads tilted left
toward the heart
left foot anchors
the orbit
longing
to pirouette with the divine
join the dervishes
in communion
to unfurl with abandon
wild dizziness
no remedy can abate
a rising white skirt
my heart opens at the still point
motionless weightless
longing flies
love’s tender power
revealed
—felice rhiannon
The way of longing
by Umtul Valeton-Kiekens
In the early 1960s, a woman fell in love with light — light caught in a camera lens, resting on white walls and clean lines, entering rooms that seemed — for one fragile historical moment — to promise a new beginning.
The world around her was rebuilding itself. The wounds of war were still tender, and hunger had left its imprint on the land and on the people. “Never again,” they said, and fields were disciplined into abundance, cities into order, homes into clarity. Progress became a kind of salvation.
She walked in that current. She shaped her life with care. Each fulfilled desire shimmered for a moment like a polished surface — and then another longing rose behind it. Like waves. Always waves.
But the sea within her was deeper than she knew.
After many turnings, she began to sense that what she had gathered could not satisfy the thirst beneath the thirst. Something in her remained unquenched — a quiet ache, intimate and persistent. She did not yet know that this ache had a name.
Then, without planning it, she crossed the path of the Sufis.
Or perhaps the path crossed hers.
She encountered talk of the Beloved — not as doctrine, but as a living Presence. She heard of the Friend who hides in the heart, of the wine that intoxicates without a cup, of the desert that strips the traveler of all that is not essential.
What she had once called longing was now revealed as homesickness.
The Way no longer promised improvement; it invited
disappearance.
The horizon was no longer something to reach, but something to dissolve into.
She entered the desert within. There, the ornaments of identity fell away one by one. Success, possession, certainty — they could not survive the brilliant light of that inner landscape. Thirst deepened. But strangely, so did joy.
She followed the fragrance of the Beloved around bend after bend. Every time she thought she had arrived, the horizon receded — playful, merciful, drawing her further inward. The wine of longing made her both sober and intoxicated. She began to understand that the Beloved was not ahead of her, but within the very longing itself.
And then, one day — though it was not a day like other days — the distance vanished.
The walker, the path, the horizon: not separate.
There was only the Way.
Only the Beloved.
Only the silent overflowing of what had always been.
Now her longing no longer seeks fulfillment for herself. It has widened into compassion. It bends toward the suffering of the world — toward hungry bodies, restless hearts, wounded earth. The wine she tasted has become tenderness.
What began as a desire for a better life has become devotion to a more merciful world.
And the Beloved — still hidden, still radiant — walks everywhere in disguise.
Soul Nutrients for the Spring Equinox
Nature awakens through love
from her deep, restful slumber.
The long winter nights slowly give way to light.
Spring arrives like a soft whisper from the Beloved —
a gentle invitation to rise,
each moment a perfect orchestration of Divine will.
The world begins to stir.
This is the season when the Beloved makes Himself known
in a hundred quiet gestures:
He laughs among the flowers.
He pours His grace through the rain.
He kisses the heart through the warmth of the sun.
He scatters colour across the trees, painting joy back into the world.
He moves through the wind as a tender embrace.
He sings through the birds, each note a small blessing for the ears.
In spring, all of existence becomes a lover
leaning toward the One it adores.
And just as nature receives
exactly what she needs to blossom,
so too does the soul —
if only we soften enough to notice
the ways the Beloved is already reaching for us,
calling from within the heart that holds His name.
Each moment of beauty is nourishment for the ruh.
For your contemplation:
What are the nutrients that will help your soul bloom this season?
—Gurprit Bhambra
Prayer of longing and gratitude
Beloved!
Beloved two-ness,
able to see, to act, to love.
Let us spark, let us burn away, crackling.
Give us that courage … that love!
One, for always.
Or maybe just for a moment,
so that we may burn again.
And again …
Thank you … thank you … thank you!
Thank you for this image,
that heals my longing.
Amen
—Marjolein Mabelis
Who am I
I am the dawn and the dark silhouettes
the path that meanders and snakes within the trees
the wind that blows through infinite space
I am the sound of the cockerels crow
the chuckle of water over stones
the settling creak of an ancient house
I am the gentle stroke of pen on paper
the creation of fertile forms
the closed circle that opens
I am the children playing hide and seek
the pleasure of being out of sight, hidden
the thrill in that moment of discovery
oh! Let me in the vastness of everything
rise up on the air currents of imagination.
—David Chapman
ancient prayer
come home
see through the veils
beyond my singular life
feel it in birdsong
in the crunch of leaves
how the starry vault
sings overhead
home is here
in the one of the one
at the heart of the wail
of an infant longing
for comfort
right here
when I notice
this pile of puppies
companions in the making
or the ping of an acorn
a freefall of hope
for the towering tree
enjoy the play
how the sun warms
the sand and my skin
each particular
a prayer of remembrance
come home
to the heart of the heart
rest here soak it in
this ancient song
calling softly
—Amrita Skye Blaine
holy hunger
it came early
the hunger to know
what holds
it all
the big queries
kids bring
to their elders
who feel shame
at not knowing
the answers
my parents brushed
me off—
turned away
made my questions
wrong, or worse, silly
it could’ve been
simple
I don’t know—
what do you think?
an open door
I had to cache
that longing
shelter the flame
nurture it
for a safer day
—Amrita Skye Blaine
fall into holiness
let go
all the way
it feels like falling
no landing, though
you won’t die—at least
not the way you think
ceding to surrender
each layer a skin
each skin gone,
born anew
into this
—Amrita Skye Blaine
Wild Strawberries
They moved the gateposts
closer to the verdant verge
edging the winding lane.
I have no idea why.
Tenacious wild strawberries
lived amongst the entrance stones.
Has their precious meagre home
been inadvertently destroyed?
Oft, I paused when walking,
their tiny white petals
beckoned me to stoop,
delighting in their beauty.
When the snow has melted,
and the warming sun returns,
ever-hopeful, I’ll again seek out
my pretty flowered neighbours.
Until then I’ll sadly wonder,
will they have survived?
Please let them be there
to rekindle my joy.
—Lysana Robinson
23rd January 2026
The Seasons Turn
Last night the wind untied silver hair
and combed the hills with fingers made of ice.
Winter sat long at the tavern of the earth,
drinking the last blue wine of silence.
The trees were dervishes in woollen cloaks,
whirling inward,
their prayers folded tight in wooden beads.
Even the river held its breath—
a lover waiting outside the Beloved’s door.
But beneath the frost’s white script
a green syllable trembles.
Movement,
the secret ink of God.
Nothing in this caravanserai stays—
not the snow’s pale empire,
not the sorrow that said, “I will never leave.”
This morning
the sun slipped a golden note
under the door of the world.
Ice loosened its stern jaw.
The river laughed aloud,
breaking its fast with light.
Have you not felt it?
That subtle turning in the dark—
roots whispering rumours of resurrection,
seeds practicing their soft explosions?
Winter was only a stern teacher,
placing cold coins in our palms
so we might learn the wealth of warmth.
Now watch—
how the orchards loosen their green scarves,
how the shy aconite lifts its golden cup
like a beggar suddenly rich with color.
The Beloved walks across the thawing fields.
Every step becomes a blossom.
Every blossom says, “Yes.
Movement is mercy,
Winter bows to Spring.
—Rachael Reuter
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