“Marry your soul. The wedding is the Way.” These two inviting lines, penned by the famous poet Rumi, illumine not only his Sufi path, but also our Way in the Art of Surrender.
Born in 1207 in present-day Afghanistan, Rumi began his adult life as a Sufi theologian. In 1244, a chance encounter with a wandering Sufi named Shams transformed him. The spiritual power that emanated from Shams shattered the shell surrounding Rumi’s spiritual heart, turning him into an ecstatic, mystical poet. By the time he died in 1273, Rumi had written thousands of poems. Overflowing with extravagant imagery, his poetry is both deeply personal and universal—beloved by Sufis, Jews, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, and atheists alike. Today Rumi is one of the most popular poets in America.
Some of Rumi’s poems recorded his human failings. In the poem, “Sometmes I Forget Completely,” he poured out a lament, revealing that sometimes he became oblivious and unhinged, forgetting the true nature of friendship. On those days, he leaked sorrow wherever he went. (Barks, ER, p. 47)
What did Rumi do when he became unconscious and sad? In “The Guest House,” he offered a glimpse into his own inner process. When you’re miserable, or possessed by shadowy and uncouth thoughts, he advised, greet them with a chuckle. Welcome each one with respect, for these wayward visitors are actually guides, sent by the great beyond. (Barks, ER, p. 109)
In other poems, Rumi described his transcendent, mystical experiences. Identifying with the indwelling God, he wrote:
Love came,
and became like blood in my body.
It rushed through my veins and
encircled my heart.
Everywhere I looked,
I saw one thing.
The Beloved’s name written on my limbs,
on my left palm,
on my forehead,
on the back of my neck,
on my right toe…
Oh, my friend,
all that you see of me
is just a shell,
and the rest belongs to the Beloved.
(Shiva, p. 38)
Rumi was a master at depicting the contrasting (human and holy) aspects within himself, but he also went beyond polarities, exploring the threshold where opposites meet. He lauded those in whom the everyday and the transcendent entwined. Speaking with admiration for a shepherd who had seen through the fog that conceals reality, Rumi observed that, in this simple man, the human and divine had merged. (Barks, ER, p. 168)
For Rumi, this sacred “coming together” unfolded through surrender to God. His poetry was rich with similes and metaphors for this spiritual transformation: melting like snow, softening like wax, burning like wood, becoming thoroughly cooked, and crumbling like rocky soil. As he explained in volume one of the Mathnawi (lines 1912-13):
Very little grows on jagged rock.
Be ground. Be crumbled,
so wildflowers will come up
where you are.
You have been stony for too many years.
Try something different. Surrender.
(Barks, SR p. 21)
When we explore the Art of Surrender, Rumi makes a good companion. Each time we welcome aspects of our human nature and our divine nature during art-making—then invite them to join through spiritual surrender—we reenact the essence of Rumi’s Way.
Note
* The Rumi quotes in this essay come from Coleman Barks’ The Soul of Rumi (SR) and Shahram Shiva’s Hush: Don’t Say Anything to God. The other poetic references can be found in Barks’, The Essential Rumi (ER).