Chapter 11: The Harpist, the Moaning Pillar, and Divine Breath

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Welcome to the Deep Dive, where we really try to go beyond the surface, digging into these profound sources to find wisdom that can, you know, genuinely shift your perspective.

And today, you've brought us something truly magnificent.

It's excerpts from Rumi's Maznavi Book One.

That's right.

And this isn't just poetry, is it?

It feels more like a, well,

a vibrant tapestry of spiritual insights packed with metaphors, timeless stories.

Exactly.

All designed to guide us, really, to a deeper understanding of ourselves, our place in the world.

So what's our mission today then?

Well, I think our mission is to really excavate, to dig out the most vital nuggets of knowledge from these passages.

We'll look at Rumi's poetic genius, of course, but also unpack the symbols, the spiritual lessons.

And connect them back.

And connect them directly to insights that hopefully resonate with your own life, your own experiences.

Think of it as maybe a personalized guide to unlocking Rumi's meaning.

I like that.

So prepare yourself for a journey that's not just about information, but potentially some real aha moments.

It's truly amazing how this ancient wisdom, like Rumi's teachings, so often holds the keys to the questions and challenges we face right now, every day.

It really does.

It's timeless.

Okay.

So let's dive in.

Let's unpack this first really powerful image Rumi gives us right near the beginning.

Yeah.

It's the contrast.

The stony heart versus soft soil.

Listen to this quote.

Don't claim in spring on stone some verger grows.

Be soft like soil to raise a lovely rose.

For years, you've been a stony hearted man.

Try being like the soil now if you can.

It's quite direct, isn't it?

An invitation.

Very direct.

And the spiritual significance here is, well, it's profound.

Is Rumi laying down a foundational principle right away to be soft like soil?

It isn't about being weak or passive, not at all.

It's about cultivating humility, openness, an act of willingness really to be transformed, to grow.

A kind of growth mindset.

Exactly.

A genuine growth mindset.

Ready to absorb wisdom, adapt rather than rigidly clinging to old beliefs or habits that might actually be stunting your spiritual growth.

So if your heart is like that hard stony ground,

nothing beautiful can really take root.

Nothing can blossom.

Precisely.

Nothing grows.

And this idea of receptivity, it ties directly into what Rumi calls these special breaths from God.

Ah, the brass.

Yes.

He references a hadith that's a recorded saying or action of the Prophet Muhammad, really central in Islamic tradition.

It goes something like this.

The Prophet said the breaths that God exhales in our own present time, that's what prevails.

So always be attentive with your ears to catch your breath before it disappears.

So these breaths are like divine inspirations, moments of grace.

Insights, opportunities, exactly.

Things you can only really receive if you're open, attentive.

If your inner soil is soft, right?

And this links to the inner melodies too, doesn't it?

The ones he talks about later, especially in the harpist story.

It does, yes.

Because Rumi makes this crucial distinction, he says.

The sensual ear can't hear such melodies since it's been tainted by iniquities.

A man can't hear the angels' tunes inside.

Their inner secrets humans are denied.

These tunes are from this world of time and death.

The heart's tunes loftier than every breath.

Exactly.

It's not about your physical ears at all.

So what is it about?

It's about the heart.

These spiritual melodies, the truly transformative insights, those very breaths of God, they're only accessible to a heart that's untainted by what he calls iniquities.

And what are those?

Our flaws.

Our inner flaws, our distractions, yeah.

Those self -imposed blocks, envy, pride, resentment, you name it.

They muddy our inner perception, make us deaf to higher truths.

Right.

And he emphasizes that saints, in this context, they act like inheritors of estrophil.

The angel whose trumpet signals the resurrection.

Wow, that's a powerful image.

It symbolizes their power to spiritually awaken others.

Rumi says, the saints take estrophil's place from today.

They give life to the dead and show the way.

They become conduits for these divine breaths.

Inheritors of estrophil.

That suggests such a deep connection.

It really does.

And this relationship between God and his servant, the saint, is elaborated beautifully when Rumi writes that God becomes their tongue and eye.

How does that go?

God told him, I'm your tongue and eye, my slave, your wrath and your contentment too, I gave.

Go forth, because through me you hear and see.

OK, obviously not literally.

No, not literally.

It speaks to this profound absorption in the divine will,

where the individual's actions, their perceptions are so aligned with the divine, they become instruments of a higher purpose.

It's about complete surrender, really.

Ego steps aside.

So for you listening, this whole section is like a powerful foundational call to action, isn't it?

I think so.

To cultivate that soft soil within yourself, to open your inner ear to divine inspiration, to guidance.

And it's a reminder that this guidance often comes through others, through spiritually developed people, those who've become receptive vessels themselves.

And you need humility even to recognize that guidance when it comes.

Absolutely.

Which brings us perfectly to transformation and surrender.

Let's dive into one of Rumi's most captivating stories, the old harpist under Omar's reign.

Ah, yes, a classic.

Rumi starts by painting this picture of his former glory.

It's like a flashback.

Incredible glory.

A harpist whose sweet music was so great, his voice made nightingales fall stunned and cry while also making each joy multiply.

Just imagine that sound.

His breath graced meetings where the lords would throng, the resurrection listened to his song.

I mean, his music literally moved the heavens.

Cosmic scale inspiration.

He was at the absolute peak.

But then time, it takes its toll, as it does.

Rumi describes this heartbreaking decline.

There's quite a point yet.

As time passed, aged, his falcon soul grown weak, more like a finch that scrapes dirt with its beak.

What a shift in imagery.

From falcon to finch, oof.

His lovely, soul -expanding voice had turned into an ugly, worthless noise men shunned.

He needed loans just for a loaf of bread.

Imagine that fall.

Utter desperation.

And in that desperation, in a graveyard of all places, he offers this raw, powerful prayer, not to men, but directly to God.

Yes.

For seventy years, although I sinned each day, you never would withhold grace from my way.

Without means, I'm your guest, so hear my song.

I play for God's sake, to whom I belong.

That's the moment, isn't it?

Complete vulnerability.

Total surrender.

It really feels like the turning point.

His spiritual breakthrough truly starts right there.

After playing, weeping, he falls asleep.

And his spirit just experiences this temporary, profound liberation.

How does Rumi put it?

Oh, beautifully.

His spirit fled the prison of his breast, abandoning the harp now for its quest, free from the body and this world of pain, into the simple world, the soul's domain.

Wow.

He sees this expansive dream world with his eyes closed, picks roses without hands, experiences a cleansing, like Job's fount washing away his woes.

It's symbolic, of course.

Cleansing his inner state, getting him ready.

Ready for what?

Well, in this dream state, a subtle but really powerful divine command comes to his spirit.

Then the command came,

don't be greedy, no.

Now that the thorns come out, step forward, go.

The thorns come out?

What does that mean?

It's crucial.

It hints at some internal obstacle, a thorn that's now been removed.

It makes way for his real spiritual journey to begin.

It's like an invitation to move beyond his past, his old self -image.

And fascinatingly, there's something parallel happening with Omar the Caliph.

At the same time, yes.

Divine guidance works in mysterious ways.

Omar gets drowsy, falls into a dream, hears God's voice, and Rumi emphasizes the power of this voice telling us,

that voice is the sole source of every sound.

All noise is just its echo going around.

That voice is heard as well by stone and wood.

That's quite a statement about divine communication being everywhere.

Omnipresent, absolutely.

So Omar wakes up, follows this divine instruction, and finds the old man.

And there's this very human moment of doubt for Omar first, isn't there?

He thinks, this old guy, this beggar, this is God's pure man, worthy, blessed, and fortunate.

Yes, that touch of human skepticism, it makes it relatable.

But despite that, the divine message gets delivered clearly.

God sends his greetings, and he asks you this.

How are you with your pain that's limitless?

And then the practical how.

Here's cash.

First, buy your silk harp strings, and then, once you have spent it all, come back again.

A clear sign of divine recognition, divine provision.

But the harpist's reaction,

it's not what you might expect, is it?

Receiving help like that.

No, it's stunning.

He breaks the harp.

Exactly.

He screams, my peerless lord, who's free from blame, please stop.

You make this old man burn with shame, and then slam his harp down, smashing it to bits.

Why?

You veiled me from my lord, you stupid thing, and chased me off the highway to the king.

He's not just anger, it's symbolic, breaking free from the very thing that defined him.

His past glory, his worldly attachment.

It's the thing that became a veil.

Precisely.

He then goes into this deep self -reproach, regretting his life spent on fickle art, lamenting he forgot the pain of being apart from the divine.

So his focus shifts completely inward.

Totally.

Away from external validation,

fleeting fame, towards his true interstate, he sees the harp not as a tool anymore, but as an idol that trapped him.

Wow.

That's a pivotal moment.

So what's the takeaway for us?

Omar sees all this, and then delivers this really crucial teaching, doesn't he?

Guiding the harpist and us beyond just feeling bad about the past.

Yes, beyond self -consciousness and regret.

He tells him,

your acute distress points also to your own self -consciousness.

Annihilation has a difference.

Self -consciousness is there a gross offense.

It's about getting stuck.

How so?

It's this thing of the past to no avail.

From God, the past and future both will veil.

Set fire to these two now, and please take heed, don't stay blocked up with knots like a bad read.

Set fire to past and future.

That's intense.

And then this kicker.

Why still repent about a state that's past?

Repent of your repentance now at last.

Repent of your repentance.

That's radical.

Let go of even feeling sorry for yourself if it keeps you stuck.

It is radical, and it points to a profound truth.

Omar's saying that even the act of repenting can become another ego trap.

If it keeps you focused on the past self, the past sin.

Exactly.

Instead of moving into complete surrender to the present divine moment, it's about annihilating the ego.

Letting go of the small self with all its worries.

Like shedding old baggage so you can move freely.

And the result for the harpist?

Transformation.

His old soul died but he was born anew.

Then he was filled with such bewilderment he rose beyond the earth in firmament.

Bewilderment, not confusion.

No, not confusion here.

It's more like being utterly awestruck.

Like seeing something so vast or beautiful, it just silences your thoughts.

The ego dissolves.

You feel connected to something much larger beyond earthy worries.

What an incredible arc.

From despair and egoic regret to total spiritual liberation.

It really makes you wonder, doesn't it, how much our own internal stories, even ones that seem virtuous like self -reproach, might be blocking our own rising beyond.

It's a deep question.

So we've seen Rumi reveal inner truths through the harpist.

But he also shows how the divine is kind of hidden in plain seat, woven into our everyday world,

often through simple things.

Yes, like the hidden rain.

Let's look at that story.

It involves Aisha, the prophet Muhammad's wife.

She's surprised because his clothes are dry after he visited a graveyard, even though she thought it was pouring rain.

Right.

Seems mundane, but then the explanation.

The prophet just calmly explains.

That rain did not come from those clouds, my love.

Other clouds float in different skies above.

Simple yet mystical.

Very.

And this leads Hakim Sanne, another great Sufi poet, to comment.

Other skies found beyond, up with the soul, command our own skies in their earthly role.

Meaning?

Meaning there are deeper layers of reality, spiritual dimensions unseen by ordinary eyes that actually influence our physical world.

And these are accessible only to those with spiritual insight.

The elite Rumi sometimes mentions.

It's a reminder that what our five senses pick up isn't the whole story.

There's unseen influence everywhere.

Like unseen weather systems affecting our world.

Kind of, yes.

And Rumi uses the rain metaphor further, exploring its dual nature.

He says.

Rain nurtures with its fresh, reviving spray, but also causes ruin and decay.

So the same divine emanation can have different effects.

Depending on?

Depending on the recipient.

The rain in spring is great.

It makes things grow.

A ton of rain is like a fever, though.

It depends if the ground your heart is ready.

Is it spring soil ready for growth, or is it autumn, where the same rain might lead to decay?

So it's not just what's given, but how it's received.

Exactly.

Which connects perfectly back to those breaths of the saints, doesn't it?

Acting like spring rain, growing a garden in the heart.

Precisely.

From that spring comes each breath the saints emit.

Inside one's heart, a garden grows from it.

And Rumi reinforces this with another Medithe about spring air versus autumn air.

Right.

The prophet tells his friends, basically, don't cover up against the spring air.

Let your soul benefit like the trees do.

But flee the autumn cold, it leaves you dead like the gardens.

And that's not literal weather advice either, is it?

No, it's a clear, urgent call.

Embrace the wisdom, the spiritual influence of the enlightened.

Be open to their spring air.

And actively avoid influences that drain your soul.

The autumnal cold.

Be discerning about what you expose your inner self to.

Absolutely.

And to illustrate the internal things that block us, Rumi uses another powerful metaphor.

The thorn in the foot.

OK.

He says, for just a bite, lopen is held at bay.

Lopen is a figure of wisdom in Islamic tradition.

Right.

It's now Loken's time morsel go away.

Your greed stops you discerning things with care.

The thorn's what you mistook to be a date.

Because you're blind with lust, you low in grade.

Ouch.

So the thorn is greed.

Lust.

Yes.

These thorns are our inner vices.

Greed, lust, false perceptions, envy, pride, anything that blinds us to the roses.

And the roses are?

Spiritual insights, true divine wisdom, like the lineage of Muhammad he mentions.

And the crucial step, Rumi insists,

is from your own foot until you first remove the thorn, you're in the dark and you can't move.

You're stuck.

You're stuck.

You can't progress spiritually.

Can't see clearly until you bravely face and remove what's holding you back from within.

It's that intense, often uncomfortable self -examination.

So for you listening, this poses a really important, very personal question, doesn't it?

Definitely.

What are your thorns?

What inner obstacles, maybe hidden even from yourself, might be stopping you from seeing clearly, from receiving those divine breaths, from cultivating that inner garden?

It really is a call for honest introspection.

Okay, so we've looked at inner transformation, hidden truths.

But Rumi also shows the spiritual isn't just internal, it's active, vibrant in the external world too.

Yes, sometimes speaking through the most unexpected things.

Even things we think of as inanimate, like the moaning pillar.

Ah yes, the striking story.

Rumi describes this pillar that literally moaned when the prophet Muhammad moved away from leaning on it to use a new pulpit.

Incredible imagery.

A pillar cut off from the prophet,

moaned, just like a living being, and it groaned.

And it actually lamented, like a heartbroken friend.

What does it say?

My soul bleeds now that it's cut off from you.

I was your firm support, but you've moved on.

Do pulpits have a post to lean upon?

It's almost human, that cry of longing from a piece of wood.

It is, but what's really astonishing is the pillar's choice.

Choice?

Yes, the prophet offers it a choice.

Become a fruit -bearing palm in this world,

or a perpetually fresh cypress in paradise.

And the pillar chooses.

Paradise.

It chooses what lasts forever, resurrection on the final day.

And Rumi then hits us with this direct challenge.

Don't you behave worse than this piece of timber.

Wow, if wood can choose eternity.

Exactly, if something inanimate has this subtle spiritual intelligence,

this awareness to choose what endures what are we doing with our consciousness, our free will.

Are we choosing the lasting or getting distracted by the temporary?

It holds up a mirror.

That's powerful.

And connecting this to the bigger picture, Rumi explains why some people just don't believe these things can happen.

He talks about the wooden legs of theorists.

People whose purely intellectual, skeptical approach stops them seeing deeper truths.

He mentions Satan sowing doubt.

And then he highlights the role of the pole of each age, the spiritual visionary.

The one with true sight.

Right.

Mountains feel dizzy at his constancy, that horseman through whom armies won their fight.

Who is this man, the one who has true sight?

These guides are essential for those who are spiritually blind.

They act as conduits for the unseen.

And building on that idea, the unseen manifesting, we get this other truly astonishing story.

The speech of gravel.

Yes, this really drives home the point about a reality beyond our normal perception.

Rumi tells the story of Abu Jaal, a major opponent of the prophet.

He tries to trick the prophet, asking what he's hiding in his hand.

A classic skeptics challenge.

But the prophet's response is brilliant.

Would you prefer it if I answer you?

Or if the stones speak up to tell what's true?

Just imagine being asked that.

And then the incredible happens.

Within his fist, each stone began to say that it had Muslim faith, without delay.

Each said, there is no god except Allah, and joined, Muhammad is his messenger.

A handful of gravel, testifying, audibly.

Exactly.

A direct, undeniable manifestation of the unseen speaking through the utterly mundane.

So what's Rumi's point with these miracles?

His profound point is, that which is grasped by your intelligence does not need miracles as evidence.

So if you already understand, you don't need a miracle.

Right.

Miracles often serve not just as proof for believers who already have that inner conviction, but maybe more to expose the skepticism, the hypocrisy of those who actively deny truth.

Like Abu Jaal.

Exactly.

His angry reaction confirms it.

He couldn't grasp it intellectually, couldn't deny what he witnessed, so he just reacted with fury.

It's a sign for those who need a sign, pushing them to confront the limits of their own perception.

What an incredible, profound journey we've taken just in these excerpts from Rumi's Maznavi, Book One.

It really covers so much ground.

From that deep wisdom of being soft like soil, cultivating inner receptivity, to the harpist's epic journey of surrender, annihilating the ego.

We've explored hidden reins, the challenge of our own inner thorns, and then witnessed the unseen literally manifesting through moaning pillars and speaking stones.

Each story, each metaphor, it's like another layer in this exquisite tapestry of spiritual guidance, always inviting us to look deeper.

So the core message then?

I think at its heart, this deep dive into Rumi invites us to cultivate that profound inner receptivity, to surrender our limiting self -consciousness, those lingering regrets.

Seek an experiential connection with the divine that goes way beyond just intellectual understanding.

It's about transforming our inner state, removing those blocks, to really align with the flow of grace and wisdom that's all around us.

Living with an open heart and attentive inner ear.

Exactly.

So let's leave you, our listener, with a final provocative thought to carry forward from this deep dive.

If even inanimate objects,

like a humble pillar or simple gravel, can apparently hear and respond to the divine call when connected to a true spiritual guide,

what hidden melodies might your own heart be capable of hearing?

And what wonders might you truly witness if you just quiet the external noise for a bit and really work diligently to remove your own inner thorns?

That's the question, isn't it?

Thank you so much for joining us on this deep dive into Rumi's timeless and truly transformative wisdom.

We hope it sparked some new insights for you.

On your own continuous journey.

Thanks for listening.