There is a veil, the thickness of which varies depending upon the nature of the soul on which it falls. A masterpiece moves from independent colours seemingly haphazard on a canvas to a glorious expression of the Artist’s being. Stumbling into the musty workshop, witnessing unwashed brushes and the sharpness of terpse stinging the nostrils, the ignorant would be forgiven for seeing nothing but a chaotic confusion of shades adorning the easel. Yet hindsight teaches that the workshop suffers not from disorder, but rather the senses that experience are not in tune with the Creative Power that soothes, should one only tune in.
Upon one of my numerous visits to the mosque of Sheikh Muhiyidin Ibn Arabi, I made the acquaintance of a striking elder by the name of Abu Muhammad. His name, which literally translated indicates that he is the ‘father of Muhammad’, is a perfect expression of anonymity. On those rare occasions in which he enters my thoughts, I like to consider his name as some profound expression of spirituality, that his desired obscurity was the result of some yearning to renounce the trappings of the ephemeral world, and embrace the ancient existence of an unknown dervish. Yet almost certainly nearer the truth is that in modern Syria, if often pays to remain unidentified. I was blessed by his company on a number of occasions, and we often engaged in a stuttering, graceless, yet well intentioned conversation that was to repeat itself (in form) at numerous junctures during my time in Syria. His face truly was alight with faith, and he wore the genuine smile of a man whose existence was good. We s...
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