tales of spring

My heart forever weaves tales of your spring,

Endlessly tells the tulip fields' tidings;

It's drunk on your eyes, their dregs, their dreams,

The better to serve your lips' ruby streams.

#694: From Rumi's Kolliyaat-e Shams-e Tabrizi

There is a good deal of springtime feeling around the world these days. Here, in Australia, it is autumn (or "fall" to yanks). The cold fingers of winter are starting to grope through the chinks in our clothes and our houses. The single layered clothes we've been wearing mainly for decency's sake are no longer adequate. We reach now for a scarf, a shawl, a light blanket on our knees while watching TV at night. Autumn and winter have a constrictive feeling, a curling in on oneself feeling. Expansive and joyful tales of spring are therefore hard to relate to.

Abdul Rahman, the Afghan Christian convert, has gone into hiding. For me, he has become a symbol for what is most incompatible between the West and Islam. While he is in hiding, he might as well be dead. (There is speculation that he has indeed been killed.) Until I hear news of his genuine release from the threat of a death penalty, whether through a legal process or through a lawless reprisal, I cannot feel joyful or springlike at all. Certainly not whenever my thoughts turn to Islam.

Thankfully, my thoughts will wander in other arenas today. The sun will often shine despite the occasional cloud cover. There will be intermittent peace at least. Perhaps I should be thankful for that much, thankful to be alive. Still, a corner of my heart will remain in wintry silence, praying for better times ahead.