sufi · Day 160 · Week 23
The Reed That Remembered
Week twenty-three, and the small one inside you is being cut, gently, from the great soft reed-bed they came from, in order to become the particular flute that is them. Their first cries will not all be hunger. Some will be remembering.
It is not crying because something is wrong. It is crying because it remembers home.
In the old city of Konya, when the sun went down behind the round dome of the great teacher's tomb, the bazaar lit its small oil lamps and the whole street smelled of bread, and rose-water, and dust that had been walked on for eight hundred years.
A boy of about seven, named Yusuf, was walking through the bazaar holding his grandfather Ibrahim's hand.