I watched Sufis dance tonight, creating sacred space and drawing closer to God through music and movement. Their drums echoed off the sides of the buildings around them, and their bare feet pounded in time as they followed centuries-old mystic visions in a small urban park.
It was beautiful, their voices a reedy counterpoint to the deep thump of the djembes while the women in brightly colored silks handed out food to the homeless to celebrate dusk during the sacred month of Ramadan.
When I heard the drums, and saw these African men dancing, my first thought was they were performing ritual, creating sacred space, safe space to celebrate sorrow and strength. In my ethnocentric way, I assumed that they were African-American, and that their sacred space was a celebration of their mixed history here in my city in the Deep South.
I was wrong, and I was right. They were creating sacred space, but there was far more joy than sorrow to it, and I was blessed to be allowed to let it wash over me, healing me and bringing me joy and peace.
I walked to the train station is a state of bubbling joy, carrying on a beautiful conversation with a Sufi man about the nature of God and Love and Salvation, and came home to this house which I love, shared a walk with my four-legged daughter, and am curled up now with a pot of my favorite tea and my homemade Black Forest scones with butter and blackberry jam.
Tonight is a gift from a loving Universe.
Thank you.
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