… loss and restoration …

This time of year I like reading in the garden. Last week I forgot to take a book inside – ‘The Hand of Poetry,’ collected poems from Sanai, Attar, Rumi, Saadi and Hafiz, translated by Coleman/Barks, with introductions taken from talks by Inayat Khan. During a short but heavy shower that night, the book greedily feasted on rain. I found it blown up, like a balloon, to double its size.

Restoration would atone for my failing. Gently lifting page after page, I placed toilet paper between each, twice and three times over. On the third day I hung the book by its spine on the washing line. Once dry, I managed to press the volume with a heavy vintage iron into reasonable shape again. The ordeal required my undivided attention. The re-read pages during those hours lodged themselves with refreshed presence in my heart.

I recalled a scene from ‘Shapers’ –  the not yet published sequel to ‘Course of Mirrors.’ The story starts with a shipwreck.  Surviving this tragedy, my protagonist finds her diary drenched to pulp. The irreplaceable loss gained her unexpected access to internalised memories, and the ability to exchange virtual letters with her soulmate of the future, scripts made visible in the thin air before her.

This phenomenon happens to me frequently these days. Just before sleep, or waking, I see screens with writing, sometimes even Twitter pages, which later turn out real. Beats me – explanations are welcome.

Memory is fluid. The child in us not only imagines the future, but also re-imagines the past. While I was lifting apart the soaked poetry pages during my restoration, it struck me they resembled crumpled and discoloured reminiscences of my father a trailing grief about our dissonance brought to light in dreams, with messages to abandon this nonsense. Can you miss a surreal projection? Yes you can – releasing a feeling of rejection that ruled years of your life takes getting used to. Had I not taken my dad’s anger with the world, and me,  so personal, I might have implored deeper into his heart pain, and mine, since, after all, deep down, our sensitivity for beauty and nature, even our humour, were much alike.

I had resisted my father’s expectations and boldly followed my heart, which, while gratifying, brought its shadow of existential anxieties. My rare brave attempts to cross the dividing bridge were met with contempt for my quixotic worldview. Bridges then became imaginary sanctuaries between varied realities, a neutral zone for my rebel to gather strength for the next quest ahead. Bridges became a major theme in my novel ‘Course of Mirrors’ – see book page on this site, or my twitter page @mushkilgusha

Rejection can add fuel to a journey. But what if a regular fuel runs out? Consider the weird silence when a monotonous background noise stops … suddenly. I identified my inner background noise as the subtle lament of blame that long ago slyly settled in my unconscious. Blaming something or someone can achieve an emotional distance, displace resentfulness, a hurt,  – but now – this peculiar silence …

The symbolic intelligence of psyche’s inner dimension communicates not only through dreams, but also through our surroundings: world events, people, objects, images. My restoration of ‘The Hand of Poetry’ resonated. Compulsive energies shift when time slows,. Familiar scripts may assume fresh meaning, and re-write themselves with different rhythms and new pauses for the spirit of surprise to enter.

Meanwhile I enjoy some treasures close by …






And I’d like to share a Hafiz poem from the restored collection. Hazrat Inayat Khan says of him:

The mission of Hafiz was to express, to the fanatically inclined religious world, the presence of God, which is not to be found only in heaven, but to be found here on earth.’


A gathering of good friends

talking quietly outdoors,

the banquet being served, a dry Rosé

with a bite of Kebab afterwards,

a wink form the one who pours,

Hafiz telling some story,

Hajji Qavam with his long laugh,

a full moon overhead,

the infinite mystery

of all this love.

If someone doesn’t want the pleasure

of such an openhearted garden,

companionship, no, life itself,

must be against his rules.



Filed under Blog

14 responses to “… loss and restoration …

  1. Beautiful. I felt the love you put into restoring your book.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Such a beautiful piece of writing Ashen, thank you. Well done for your attention to the restoration of the book of poems – and perhaps another deja vu re this book being thoroughly drenched and your protagonist’s diary in your sequel suffering the same fate. Restoration, renewal and suffering often go hand in hand.

    Those moments when thoughts and dream happen in ‘real’ life are special moments I’ve found … I wonder if I’m dreaming or being dreamed.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, Susan.
      I wonder too. The experience of being dreamed tends to ease the existential weight on the persona constrained in my reality. There’s more awareness of the in-between spaces, where the dance happens between love, lover and the Beloved Being that contains eternal life. Where the fibers that connect us swing freely, each to their capacity of sound in the cosmic orchestra. Oh, I just made this up 🙂


  3. Rob

    Greetings Ashen.
    Thanks for another lovely piece, which stimulates my own “what have you”!
    Coming to terms with how things are….for me the gigantic challenge! Then I think of the numberless people I’ve encountered who have far deeper tragedy in the lives than mine…..people severely disabled, dying, dispossessed, unbelievably abused…..it’s endless. Very often their apparent fortitude, relative equanimity and acceptance has put me to shame.
    According to Einstein Space-Time never changes. We travel through time like we travel through space. The infinite future is already awake, showered, cleaned it’s teeth, dressed and awaiting our arrival. I was always going to have the life I have had. It was written with the Big Bang!
    We certainly have the mental model that we have volition and can change things and so we can, within the context of our miniscule individual ego consciousnesses, built around our comforting little models of self sentience and free will. That tiny precinct is all part of the cosmic order of course, the totality of which even the most evolved among us have only the barest hints. I think it’s important to remember that a vast and probably infinite story is being played out….quite possibly for ever….and to try to remember this at every opportunity.

    Maybe just about the only thing we can really change is our attitude, our perception of life. Healing flows from that.
    Love and Light

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks for your thoughts, Rob. i agree with your conclusion ☼
      … Maybe just about the only thing we can really change is our attitude, our perception of life. Healing flows from that …


  4. What a lovely, poignant journey, Ashen. A fascinating drawing together of many strands, and a tantalising glimpse of Shapers. Nicely done.
    And, thanks for sharing the Hafiz poem at the end, it is beautiful. Another author to look out for.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Nice to find such deep philosophical musings amidst all the chatter.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I am loathe to lend people my books as I don’t know how they will treat them, and can well appreciate how you felt when your book was rained on. Thank you for sharing the beautiful poem. 😀

    Liked by 1 person

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