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Dervishes

I remember the Sufi dancers I saw in a dark mosque in Istanbul. Wed

followed our guide down narrow streets, turning corners that never made right
angles. Slipping through a battered green door that looked like it led no place
special, we fell quiet looking at pillars, high windows, and a domed ceiling. We
took our seats on wooden folding chairs set up behind the pillars, where we
could be hidden in the shadows. The dancers could pretend we werent there,
watching their worship. A shaft of sunlight slanted through a window high
above, and motes of dust floated through it as our breath moved the still air.
Our guide, sitting in front of us, muttered over his shoulder, These
men are forbidden to practice their dervish dancing in Turkey these days
unless they do it for tourists, which is the reason they have agreed to do it
today. Please be respectful, as this is their only chance to pray.
Nine men filed in silently and took their places in a circle. They wore
white outfits, tennures, with full sleeves and long skirts, red fez hats on their
heads. I dont remember any music. Maybe there was some. What I remember
is the Dervishes, these Muslim mystics who seek an experience with the
Beloved Divine, raising one arm, palm up toward heaven, extending the other
palm down toward the earth. Slowly they began to spin. The hems of their
robes swirled and lifted. Their skirts twirled slightly, circling as the dancers
went around. Their faces, raised toward the light, were solemn, enraptured.
They didnt spot, as dancers do, to avoid dizziness. Faces and bodies spun
together.
Then they stopped. Together they all stopped. They didnt stagger or
wobble. They stood still, slowly dropped their arms, and bowed. They raised
their arms again and began to spin in the opposite direction.
Watching, I was in as much of a trance as they were. This wasnt only an
amazing tourist experience, it was religion, theirs and mine. I was awed by
their focus, their devotion. I felt the Spirit move them and me as I watched.
Their faces were not ethereal faces of angelic beings, but the faces of young and
older men who worked in car garages and textile warehouses, rough faces you
could see in any tea shop on the street arguing over politics or the best way to
Meg Barnhouse. All Rights Reserved. Published by Skinner House Books

run a soccer team. The whole person behind each face was utterly given over to
the Spirit for the duration of this dance. They prayed in their beloved
community as they danced together across the bare wooden floor.
Of course I tried it later. It was difficult to spin and stop, then spin the
other way, but I discovered that as I spun, I found a still place inside. That still
place isnt dizzy. I dont know how it works. It is the same still place I can get to
through yoga or meditation, in prayer or sitting by a creek. Its that place where
I have a glimpse of what it feels like to be held in the arms of love, to be
grounded in the Great Compassion, to be washed in light and encompassed by
sacred dark.
As I recall those mystics spinning between earth and heaven, through
the shaft of sunlight and back into the dimness of the room, the memory feeds
me. Their crimson hats, their raptured faces live in my soul. I am eternally
grateful to have been present at their prayers. They are always present at mine.
Taken from Did I Say That Out Loud? Musings from a Questioning Soul
Written by Meg Barnhouse