Food is fragrance.
The culmination of manifold aromas emanating from a kitchen, a dining table and quite possibly, a singular dish even.
Flowers are also fragrance.
Each one of them unique, distinguishable and lingering long after they disappear from sight, smell and touch.
We crave them both. As we do, love.
My love of food, flowers and their rare and familiar fragrances is a very large one.
One that often transports me into a make-believe, medieval world of love, lotuses and longing.
It is in these moments that I plunge into the writings of Rumi and assume the role of a young, dreamy dame and believe I am A lover,
Lotus in hand on a riverbank,
Overflowing with emotion like only lovers can.
TALKING IN THE NIGHT
In the middle of the night,
I cried out,
?Who lives in this love I have??
You said, ?I do, but I?m not here alone. Why are these other images with me??
I said, ?They are reflections of you, just as the beautiful inhabitants of Chigil in Turkestan resemble each other.?
You said, ?But who is this other living being??
?That is my wounded soul.?
Then I brought that soul to you as a prisoner.
?This one is dangerous?,
I said. ?Don?t let him off easy.?
You winked and gave me one end of a delicate thread.
?Pull it tight, but don?t break it.?
I reached my hand to touch you. You struck it down.
?Why are you so harsh with me??
?For good reason. But certainly not to keep you away! Whoever enters this palace saying Here I am must be slapped.
This is not a pen for sheep.
There are no separating distances here.
This is love?s sanctuary.
Saladin is how the soul looks. Rub your eyes,
and look again, with love at love.?
TALKING THROUGH THE DOOR
You said, ?Who?s at the door??
I said, ?Your slave.?
You said, ?What do you want??
?To see you and bow.?
?How long will you wait??
?Until you call.?
?How long will you cook??
?Till the Resurrection.?
We talked through the door. I claimed a great love and that I had given up what the world gives to be in that love.
You said, ?Such claims require a witness.?
I said, ?This longing, these tears.?
You said, ?Discredited witnesses.?
I said, ?Surely not!?
You said, ?Who did you come with??
?The majestic imagination you gave me.?
?Why did you come??
?The musk of your wine was in the air.?
?What is your intention??
?Friendship.?
?What do you want from me??
?Grace.?
Then you asked, ?Where have you been most comfortable??
?In the palace.?
?What did you see there??
?Amazing things.?
?Then why is it so desolate??
?Because all that can be taken away in a second.?
?Who can do that??
?This clear discernment.?
?Where can you live safely then??
?In surrender.?
?What is this giving up??
?A peace that saves us.?
?Is there no threat of disaster??
?Only what comes in your street, inside your love.?
?How do you walk there??
?In perfection.?
Now silence.
If I told more of this conversation,
those listening would leave themselves.
There would be no door,
no roof or window either!*
The feelings that food and fragrances sometimes elicit are inexplicable. Quite like love.
Scent and taste remain with us,
On our minds,
In our hearts. Quite like love.
Just as there is no lone way to cook, no single flower to appreciate more than the rest,
There is no lone way to love or experience that enormous, insurmountable state of being.
Besides of course, surrendering to its abundance: The flavour, fragrance and feeling of it.
And occasionally, the genius of Rumi.
*Both the poems are direct reproductions of Mr. Coleman Barks? translations from a compilation titled, ?The Essential Rumi?.
