Another post on the Sema:

Here's a note from the hayatidede site:

-- "As planets and stars circle the sun, the dervishes turn counterclockwise, both around themselves and around the halka (circle). They turn first with crossed arms; then, taking flight, they open their arms, holding the right hand up and the left hand down, becoming transparent vessels for bringing divine blessings to earth. Pervading the space is 'Zikr', the holy name Allah, invoked by everyone. Turning becomes a travel through the universe before God, the spiritual sun of the worlds. The semazens first turn to dissolve their doubts into belief in God's unifying presence. Then, belief deepens, becoming faith, and the semazens scale the heights, to the abode of absolute existence, of Unity. With God's grace, it is here that everyone drinks deeply from the same source of life and love that united Mevlana and Shams hundreds of years ago. The eternal bridge they became, as teacher and student, lover and beloved, still beckons the spiritual traveler who is willing to risk all in its precarious course. Finally, the semazens return to stillness. Surah al Fatiha, the opening chapter of Quran, is recited. In unison, the dervishes kiss the floor, and invoke the blessings of God. "As-Salaamu aleikhum" ("God's Peace be with you") echoes through the space. The dervishes intone together the sacred name of God, "Hu", and bow together once again before leaving the sema hall." --

Our experience: Friends who attended (gratefully, there were several) said that the gravity of the ceremony did not hit them until the last semazens left the hall. Only then did the depth of the silence impact them. Other comments included who turned the most gracefully, who almost fell, etc. One friend, very graciously, described my turning as the opening and closing of a flower - that because as I wearied of having my arms above my head, I would relax them and turn in silence for some time - before blossoming again before the shaikh.

What actually happened on the 7th was an initiation ceremony to the sufi order. I was able to photograph the tenderest moments, when Jelaluddin worked with the semazens to ensure that their eliflamend/belt was secured properly and each skirt was pleated to allow for the smoothest turn. Standing with the other women semazens as Jelaluddin watched each of us turn and followed with slight changes was touching and I made sure each female semazen received a photo of themself with Jelaluddin. There was some sweetness in Jelaluddin's gesture that set the tone for the entire ceremony.

As we assembled for the initiation, the men joined us in our dressing room. There is a part of the ceremony that involves kissing the hand of each semazen, as they kiss yours. I fell into acres of calm as I looked into the eyes of each of the semazens as they welcomed me to their order.

Organizing ourselves for the ritual, just before we went into the hall, I felt filled with conflicting feelings. Jason and I, being among the new initiates, were standing next to each other. He was engulfed in the experience, had gone much deeper, it seemed to me, than I would go. I felt the solid ground of previous ritual, the commitment I am able to muster from familiarity, not of this particular form, but of form itself. I was nervous and proud.

We walked out onto the floor of the semahane hall and I was swallowed whole. The ceremony became an ocean. I was tossed and righted in equal measure. I felt relieved that I had practiced and unable to control my feet or arms. Semazens swirled by me in seemingly effortless grace as I expended all energy. I felt every bit of my ego rebel. And I kept going.

We walked together, bowed to each other, began and concluded the Sultan Valed walk. We began the first salaam and I rode the torrents. At the conclusion of the first salaam, we assembled ourselves at the perimeter of the room. I was joined by Hafiz, who turns with great beauty and who is perhaps the most solemnly graceful man I've met. Hafiz had been turning with Barucha in the center of the circle and leaned against me as we bowed and waited for permission to turn again. We trembled together with the effort of the turn. His trembling brought me back to myself. The effort of the turn is always evident within, always has an impact. I was utterly comforted by this small epiphany.

I turned in the center with Asha for the second salaam. Asha was leaving for Thailand, in the week following the ceremony, to visit her son and his family - to do workshops with women in the mountain villages.

The third salaam took me to the limit of my remaining energy. I wobbled and righted myself without cessation. In each salaam, we have the opportunity to excuse ourselves, to leave if we cannot continue. This was the salaam that brought me closest to that decision. I had it in my mind that I would surrender, when an urgent feeling rose within me. ONE MORE SALAAM TO GO!!! Just one, only one, the last salaam. As we made our way to the edge of the circle to wait for permission to turn the final salaam, I stayed right where I was.

The semazens finished the final salaam in almost complete silence. We do not trun around the circle, as in each of the previous salaams. In the fourth salaam, we turn in place. For every other salaam, there is the moment when we pass the shaikh - at each passing, Jelaluddin is audibly praying - I felt that he was singing for me, singing for all of us as we worked this prayer. The feeling I got from this passing song was one of such generosity. In the fourth salaam, Jelaluddin joins us in the circle, opening his heart in this sacred space.

The turning continued, nothing else existed. Turning went on until we saw Jelaluddin return to his place, opposite the musicians. He gave one final prayer to us, the semazens and to the musicians, then strode out of the hall, our signal to follow him. In the backstage area, we formed two lines to embrace and kiss each other's hands. The male semazens followed each other to their dressing room and I walked with the women back to our dressing room.

A semazen from the caravan to San Francisco had asked, before the ceremony, if I would photograph her in her entire costume. As I made my way back to my camera, in front of Barucha (a Sheikha for our order) I giddily asked "Now! Who wants their picture taken?" Barucha grabbed my arm and motioned for me to be silent. I looked around and saw that no one in the room was on the surface - everyone was deep within themself. We retreated to the couches and complete silence descended.

In time, a few of the women began to change into their street clothes. I found the caravan semazen and we took turns photographing each other, all sweet red faces and smiles for days.

I walked out into the hall and talked for some time to our friends who travelled to Seattle from Portland to join us - looked for other of our friends who had left and tried talking to Dan, but felt a bit incoherent. Jason and I found each other and finished the small tasks we had remaining and went home. There was a reception for semazens that capped off the evening. It contrasted strongly with the bright lights and public nature of the Sema ceremony. The lights in the reception hall were dim, the musicians played for themselves, poetry was comical and filled with life - all of the things that made the night beautiful roamed and erupted in the bodies of the semazens and their friends. We stopped for a while, I got to hear my favorite poem - the one about the chickpea and the cook:

CHICKPEA TO COOK

A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot
where it’s being boiled.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

The cook knocks him down with the ladle.

“Don’t you try to jump out.
You think I’m torturing you.
I’m giving you flavor,
so you can mix with spices and rice
and be the lovely vitality of a human being.

Remember when you drank rain in the garden.
That was for this.”

Grace first. Sexual pleasure,
then a boiling new life begins,
and the Friend has something good to eat.

Eventually the chickpea
will say to the cook,
“Boil me some more.
Hit me with the skimming spoon.
I can’t do this by myself.

I’m like an elephant that dreams of gardens
back in Hindustan and doesn’t pay attention
to his driver. You’re my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love your cooking.”

The cook says,
“ I was once like you,
fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time
and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings.

My animal soul grew powerful.
I controlled it with practices.
and boiled some more, and boiled
once beyond that,
and became your teacher.”

- then we went home.

Our friends from Portland were waiting for us. We brought another - visiting from Hawaii. The conversation was steady and beautiful, I think we stayed up 'til three.

It felt like everything was beautiful because we gave and kept giving. It felt like the structure of the thing was stable and secure. I felt the layers of my spiritual self sifting this new knowledge and knew that understanding would be a long time coming. I still believe that. I'm so grateful for the new-to-me dignity and calm, so enchanted with the lovers poetry and drunken humor. I'm mystified by the transmission via Islam. These are new roots for me, folks.

I'm also eternally grateful for my existing spiritual practice. Working with women to determine my connection to myself is a neverending process. The people who I share my spiritual practice with get me all teary eyed - they are so wonderful and human and full of all the things that I thirst for. Without the work I've done for the last 15 or so years, the work I'm doing now would not be possible.

I've wanted to write about this - haven't been sure where this tale should land. Here it is though.

Happy New Year