Yes, I’m getting bogged down. 25,000 words, halfway there, and.... I’m done! I have nothing else to say, nothing else for the boys to do, no other dialogue or backstory to write. It’s a young adult book, I argue, they’re shorter [just look at Rowling’s sixth book - only 1000 pages!]. So I wonder if I can, in fact, make it to the finish line. I didn’t train hard enough at the literary gym. I should’ve done more reps, gone more often, gotten used to the marathon instead of the sprint. But no - I am naive, if nothing else. But maybe that will work to my advantage. I always seem to do better in life when I don’t know what I’m getting into beforehand. I haven’t heard anybody tell me how impossible it will be for me to write a novel. I haven’t listened to the naysayers. I have only heard my own inner voice urging me forward. It has mostly served me well. Except for those couple of relationships and business decisions. But I learned valuable lessons, right? Isn’t that what we always say when we mess up? “But I received some valuable insight.” Whatever.
We went to see the Yuval Ron Ensemble last night. I insisted. They have a whirling dervish. That is what I want to talk about. Not only the dervish, with his jet black hair, piercing eyes, headwrap and black cloak over his full white skirt. But about what he represents to me at this time. He represents the sacred, the single point of focus and faithfulness that I feel I’m lacking. He walked slowly onto the stage, cloth floor mat in hand. He set the mat on the floor, walked up the last step and stood on it, then slowly took off his black cape and folded it neatly behind him. Then he stepped into the middle of the stage, looked out above the audience, held his hands out, and slowly, slowly started twirling. His right foot planted, his left foot twirling and planting on either side of his body. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, bent his head back and to the right, closed his eyes, and kept twirling. Faster. Then both arms flew straight out, then curved upward into a prayer position over his head, then back again crossed over his chest. Sometimes twirling slowly, sometimes fast. Sometimes so fast his head was all the way back, facing straight up to the sky, to Allah, the breath of God, [the musicians explained before the dance again that the word ‘allah’ is translated literally to mean the ‘breath of god’].
I couldn’t stop crying. I thought I probably would cry. I was pre-moved by the experience, but moved in different ways when I actually got to see him dance. When he was done, he walked back to his prayer mat, knelt down, pressing his forehead to the floor, and gesticulated three times, stood up, and only then did the audience applaud. I held my hands out, palms down, and waggled them back and forth as the musicians were doing. It means “we’re acknowledging the Divine” or at least that’s what MY interpretation of that gesture is.
I talked to the dervish afterward, touching his arm and telling him how much his dancing moved me. He said thank you. I said it made me cry. He said it makes him cry, as well, then he looked into my eyes and said, “What’s your name?” “Susie,” I replied. “Thank you, Susie.” At that point, the tears came again, as they come now, and I don’t know why. I just know that I was a part of something sacred last night, something that I need in my life right now as I walk through some darker forests of the unknown, feeling unfocused and kind of lost. The single focus of the dervish as he twirls 360 in his life, yet remains balanced and upright, is nothing short of miraculous and impressive. If he can do that on a grand scale, maybe I can do that somehow, in my own life.