Page 119 - The Book of Rumi

Not Mourning the Dead

ears ago, there was a Sufi shaykh, righteous and holy, who was revered
Yby all. As it happened, an unknown illness took the lives of two of his
children. His household, the entire neighborhood, indeed people from far and
away mourned this calamity for weeks on end. The only person who never
shed a tear was the shaykh himself. Much time passed, but still there were no
tears, no signs of mourning. People were perplexed, unable to decipher what
had happened to their favorite holy man. At last a devotee gently approached
him: “Forgive my intrusion, great shaykh, but we’re all in a state of disbelief,”
she said sheepishly.
“How can I help you, my dear?” inquired the shaykh, looking up from
his reading.
“How can you remain so aloof and unfeeling about the loss of your
darling children, while grief over their tragedy has bent our backs in double?
You’re our leader and master whom we trust intrinsically, and we ultimately
hope to fi nd solace in you during our own illness and demise. Why this silence?
Don’t you feel any pain? Perhaps you’ve no compassion left in your heart! How
can we continue to hope for your guidance in our hour of need?”
On and on she pestered the shaykh, who remained silent, allowing her to
speak her mind and relieve herself of the disappointment she felt. When she
fi nally fi nished, the shaykh gently explained: “My dear girl, don’t imagine for
a moment that I’m void of compassion and love. I feel empathy even for sin-
ners; I’ve compassion even for rocks and stones, which can injure people! Even
dogs who bite us get my sympathy, and I pray that God may relieve them of
this particular foul habit!”
“When you feel such mercy for strangers and offer them guidance like
the good shepherd you are, how come you don’t mourn the loss of your own
children? Tears are a sign of kindness and love, yet your eyes are never moist
like ours.”
The shaykh turned his face to the woman and said: “My good woman,
let me tell you, winter is not like the summer! Although my children are gone,

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