I have had the feeling that Effendi knows what is in everyone's heart. He reads hearts. When he talks to me individually in the group, it's as if I had asked him a question, and he is answering it.
Do we know what is in his heart? Yes, I know it is love for all, for he is always thinking of others and giving and giving and giving. His aim, like Heavenletters™, is to bring us closer to God. I suppose there is really nothing more to know.
He makes himself responsible for every person's well-being. He is the epitome of gentleman. He has his eye on everything and doesn't miss a trick. He treats us like royalty right to every detail.
For example, he makes sure I get a most comfortable seat in the meeting room. When I am ready to leave, no matter what is going on, although I live only three minutes away in a very safe neighborhood, he will just nod and point to one of the college students. The student gets up and walks me home gladly. I don't need any of this, but I sure love it!
On another topic altogether, something unusual happened at the Fairfield Sufi House that same evening I wrote about in yesterday's blog. What happened -- or didn't happen actually -- is mysterious and, I can only think, significant.
Effendi doesn't speak English. Effendi says a sentence or two in Turkish, and then Isil or Sule or whoever is translating that evening, translates Effendi's words to us and our words to Effendi.
Whereas I usually remember what Effendi talks about to the group, I do not always remember what Effendi says specifically to me. I am left only knowing that what he has said is beautiful and powerful.
I don't remember the context in the room filled with people that night, but Effendi started talking directly to me. He began with GLORIA.
He looked deeply into my eyes and said two sentences in Turkish. At the very moment, I may have had an inkling of what he was saying. Yet, in a blink, my mind was a total blank.
When the translator started to translate, Effendi shook his head no -- she was not to translate. She was not to give me the meaning of those two sentences. I was never supposed to know what had Effendi said to me. What did he say? What was the message? And why wasn't I supposed to know? And why wasn't I supposed to ever know?
Of course, it had to be a blessing of some kind. I know that much. Of course, I would love to know what he said, yet it must be my ego that wants to know. So, at the same time, I can let it rest and not have to know. I have too much respect for Effendi to do anything but let it be.
It is seeming to me now that my whole life is becoming like a poem that I love but I don't quite know what the poem really means. I know it's beautiful. I know the meaning of the poem can't be told in any other words but the words the poem came in and maybe can't really be understood on the level of words altogether. It is beyond meaning, and yet the poem fills something in my heart and stays vibrating there.
Life itself has been a great mystery for me, or sometimes a niggling puzzle. And now -- what a wonderful thing -- my life is slipping into becoming a mystical poem.