{"id":15448,"date":"2021-12-10T10:22:59","date_gmt":"2021-12-10T09:22:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dirkvanbabylon.com\/uncategorized\/probing-month-lighting\/"},"modified":"2026-04-11T16:40:29","modified_gmt":"2026-04-11T14:40:29","slug":"probing-month-lighting","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dirkvanbabylon.com\/en\/sprokkelmaand\/probing-month-lighting\/","title":{"rendered":"Probing month: lighting"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

What does Roemi have to say to this?<\/h2>\n<\/div>\n
\n

After <\/span>Divan-i Shams-i Tabriz<\/span><\/i>, ode 120 by Mevlana Jalal El Din Rumi<\/span><\/p>\n

Come to the root of the root of your Self.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Kneaded from clay, yet also formed from the dust of certainty, guardian of the treasure of sacred light. Come to the root of the root of your Self.<\/span><\/p>\n

Once you gain hold of selflessness, you are swept away from your ego and freed from many pitfalls. Come to the root of the root of your Self.<\/span><\/p>\n

You are born from the children of God\u2019s creation, yet you cast your gaze too low\u2014how then can you be joyful? Come to the root of the root of your Self.<\/span><\/p>\n

You may be a talisman guarding a treasure, yet you are also the source. Open your hidden eyes, come to the root of the root of your Self.<\/span><\/p>\n

You were born from a ray of God\u2019s majesty and possess the blessings of a fortunate star. Why then suffer from things that do not exist? Come to the root of the root of your Self.<\/span><\/p>\n

You are a ruby imprisoned in granite\u2014how long will you pretend that it is not true? We see it in your eyes. Come to the root of the root of your Self.<\/span><\/p>\n

You came here through the agency of that subtle Friend, a little intoxicated yet gentle, and you took possession of our hearts with that fiery gaze. Therefore come to the root of the root of your Self.<\/span><\/p>\n

Shams-i Tabriz, our master and host, sets this eternal cup before you. God be praised\u2014what an excellent wine! Come to the root of the root of your Self.<\/span><\/p>\n

The Sediment and the Lemon Peel<\/h3>\n

Sediment of a past life that longed to unfold!<\/span><\/p>\n

Having arrived in the middle of the planned outline, I may perhaps owe you an explanation. I wish to do a few things: to provide a kind of manual for your unruly life as a sixteen-year-old today, but also to tell a story that unwinds in spiral form like a lemon peel, although in practice it usually breaks into pieces on which the syntax slips.<\/span><\/p>\n

Let us speak about you. As a minor subject to compulsory schooling, you regularly go to school. You must meet a number of requirements imposed by boring adults all the time, each of whom appears to have his own problem, and secretly you have your own desires.<\/span><\/p>\n

I assume that, because I have come to the conviction that all boys have desires which express themselves inwardly in fantasies. Yet not everyone is able to put them into words, and even less to bring the imagination into tangible reality. I am not good at that either. I am not a practical person.<\/span><\/p>\n

Beneath a dull exterior I am full of emotions, inflammable and acutely ignited, yet I do not like to become concrete. Sex provokes anxiety. That is why I need the aid of the bathroom method. <\/span>The theoretical elaboration is based on the practical experience that unfolds as I put boys in the bath, because I like to test theory in practice.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is of course never the intention that the son and I will remain together forever. Take Prince Sixteen, for example. For a moment we steamed alongside one another like two battleships of the German navy in the Second World War sailing through the salty waters of the Channel in wartime. For a while cleaving the waves together, and then finished for the rest of the war.<\/span><\/p>\n

The Scharnhorst and the Gneisenau in black-and-white illumination, foam spraying on the antique photograph. I still sometimes go and look at your revealing photograph and then it all returns. That is why I do not do it too often. Those mischievous eyes, and that hairstyle, that blond sixteen-year-old boy looking so strikingly into the lens. Your eyes look at me and it becomes as if I were with you in the bathroom handing you the towel. I melt like beeswax in the glow of desire.<\/span><\/p>\n

For I can imagine that your hair is wet and that I dry it on a good day, if everything continues to function as it has lately. We have water, gas and electricity, day after day. There is so much I must explain, yet the time is so short. Barely a month of regular chat and telephone contact, and then it fell silent and I could no longer find you.<\/span><\/p>\n

The echo of unanswered messages increased. In that relative silence words well up that, if not filling the emptiness, at least color it. At a certain moment it became not merely infatuation but a matter of life or death\u2014or rather of rising or remaining lying down\u2014because of my cerebral thrombosis.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fortunately we seldom spoke about life problems, you and I, my beloved. Much more often it was about what you would wear to seduce me. Those were much better discussions. In my thoughts I have taken leave of you. Farewell to Prince Sixteen. I send an e-mail because another month has been squeezed out. It is now three weeks without news and that cannot be a coincidence.<\/span><\/p>\n

You do not wish to bind yourself, and at your young age that is of course not an unreasonable intention. If I think about it soberly, I must admit that. It shows that you possess a certain maturity of decision and a great independence. In anyone else I would consider that positive, but in this case it mainly means that the feast does not take place.<\/span><\/p>\n

That is disappointing, because it has stirred up so much passion and desire\u2014dust that must settle again as if nothing had happened, difficult to accept. Fortunately I can attach myself to other things, such as the seventeenth century. It is always a pleasant subject to talk about.<\/span><\/p>\n

The Boy in the Coach<\/h3>\n

Literature brings us back to a moment of illumination that once took place.<\/span>
\n<\/span>A screen projection carries us to the years sixteen-hundred-and-something. A coach drawn by horses travels through the French countryside. The sort of stagecoach in which anyone could take a seat who paid for it.<\/span><\/p>\n

In that stagecoach an encounter takes place between two travelers. One is Father Jean-Joseph Surin, as young as the century and still green behind the ears, a highly learned Jesuit father, on his way to Paris to learn even more. The other passenger is an unnamed twenty-year-old boy who expresses himself in dialect.<\/span><\/p>\n

Between the two of them a mutual interaction arises that proves unforgettable. This meeting leaves an indelible mark on the father, so deep that many years later Jean-Joseph Surin writes a letter about it, which afterwards begins to lead a life of its own, retold, copied and recopied by French nuns who gladly exchange such stories among themselves.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLike a messenger on the threshold of a lost land, so is the young man of the coach from Rennes to Paris.\u201d Surin makes the acquaintance of a boy of less than twenty years, of humble origin and with alarming language, without any learning,\u201d who nevertheless made a deep and indelible impression on the father, \u201cas if this boy were filled with all kinds of grace and inward gifts.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The impact is so great that the purified Surin later describes this event as a spiritual eye-opener. While the coach winds its way through the curving landscape, a remarkable conversation unfolds, both inside the jolting vehicle and during the stops along the road, in which the coach, the travelers, the road and all of France disappear from the stage, leaving only the tide of you and I.<\/span><\/p>\n

In those days people still lived together with devils and angels, and other spirits. To speak with the words of the apostle Paul: \u201cthis conversation takes place in the heavenly regions.\u201d It is a spiritual lightning strike, a <\/span>coup de foudre<\/span><\/i> to remain in the local language. The young man is so just in his judgment, so balanced and harmonious in his outlook, and unfailingly chooses the right values, without any book learning entering into it.<\/span><\/p>\n

It even comes so far that for quite some time the Father assumes that the gifted lad must be an Angel sent by God. The good father remains in that illusion until Pontoise, where he notices that this remarkable young man asks whether he may confess to the father.<\/span><\/p>\n

The well-trained priest immediately remarks that the sacraments were not instituted for angels, and concludes from this that it must therefore have been an ordinary human being. I did not invent this myself; I took it from the introduction by Julien Green to the \u201cCorrespondance\u201d of Jean-Joseph Surin (texte \u00e9tabli pr\u00e9sent\u00e9 et annot\u00e9 par Michel de Certeau, pr\u00e9face de Julien Green, Descl\u00e9e de Brouwer 1966, Bruges).<\/span><\/p>\n

Dear Linda,<\/span>
\n<\/span>I am now past the middle of the new book.<\/span>
\n<\/span>My previous attempt was not a success, because it did not find a publisher. It was rather Anglo-Saxon in its construction, and that did not come across well. This time I intend to write a French novel in Dutch. An account of upbringing, emancipation and civilization.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is progressing well, and I write a great deal, but for the time being I am not yet going to look at what I already have. Rereading is out of the question for the moment, because there are still a few things that must come out, such as many complaints about Ibrahim that overgrow the text. That must stop. In practice it comes down to trying to produce my seven pages every day.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sometimes something comes out, often not what I expected. It comes down to opening the tap and catching whatever flows out. Later I will see what we have, to put it together afterwards, to choose and select and make a manuscript of it. I think that with this method it should be possible to have something within a few months that can be submitted.<\/span><\/p>\n

What is it about? A manual for the person I once was, when I had no handbook yet, in order to become even better the person I am, but faster, with less pain and fewer obstacles. Perhaps somewhere in the country there is a brown-skinned teenager, my dear Linda, who will draw knowledge and courage from it to tackle the unpleasant life on this cramped little planet with the audacity of youth, who can build further upon the experiences of those who came before them.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Ultimately everyone must always make their own decisions; that is the lonely aspect but also the beauty of it. No one can do it in your place. The path of life is about more than acquiring knowledge alone, my beloved; it also concerns the affective realm, for lack of a better word, and that has to do with desire, longing, libido, appetite. It points forward toward union.<\/span><\/p>\n

What drives us toward one another? What moves us to wander lonely over the desolate surface of the earth, unless we seek companions with whom the wandering becomes more interesting? Now you bump into each other, then you find a kindred soul, and yet you must part again. A time of coming, a time of going. No life can be imagined without loss.<\/span><\/p>\n

No literature can be imagined that does not have a poet who cries out anonymously: \u201cEgidius, where have you remained, I long for you, my companion.\u201d How can we best deal with absence, do you think? For me it succeeds best on the wings of mysticism and of unforgettable literature.<\/span>
\n<\/span>There is a draft in the libraries. Somewhere a window stands open that points to more. The books open a view onto additional experience, a breath of spiritual oxygen, and the unfathomable ground of all truth. That is what keeps reality upright: the text behind things.<\/span><\/p>\n

It would be quite something if there were no way out of despair in our inheritance of centuries-old and also recent literature. We could no longer understand everyday reality, let alone shape it, if there were not the support of the written, printed and in every possible way reproducible word.<\/span><\/p>\n

Only there are usually far too many words. In that labyrinth one must devise the right search term if one wishes to find the right answer. It depends on whether you ask the right questions and whether your heart is in the right place.<\/span><\/p>\n

Accommodation<\/h3>\n

Once you have found the best sources, you can refer to them.<\/span><\/p>\n

The intellectual labor required for that works its way from darkness toward a great clarity, and that clarity is precisely what everyday life lacks. But my leaps of thought are interrupted when Prince New appears with a toadlike cry on the MSN chat line.<\/span><\/p>\n

XXX<\/span><\/p>\n

Nice People<\/h3>\n

I am increasingly discovering that there are not so many pleasant people alive, nice people in the real meaning of the word, and therefore interesting to deal with and easy to get along with.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Of course everyone has a right to exist, and by the same token truly bad people are rare as well. The middle group forms the large majority. Everyone a little true and a little false.<\/span><\/p>\n

According to Dante, hell can be compared to a funnel consisting of circles that become smaller the deeper they lie. At the upper rim of hell, around it, dwell the souls of the lukewarm, the spineless, the mediocre, and all those who were not really bad but who also did not redeem themselves for heaven through a burning faith.<\/span><\/p>\n

The lukewarm form the majority and they fill the largest circle. They are not allowed into hell, because they are not bad enough for that. Give me rather the vehement souls, the personalities with a pronounced opinion, especially if their discourse is evangelical or infernal, for it is better to be outspoken and to play a recognizable character.<\/span><\/p>\n

In recent years I have reached a point where I appreciate people according to the care they offer to others, and according to the degree in which they develop themselves spiritually. Or the other way around, for otherwise you get martyr complexes. So first self-development and then care for others, but in any case both go together in love.<\/span><\/p>\n

As a standard this works better in practice than intelligence or outward appearances. It is not about judging. Yet I catch myself consciously or unconsciously having more appreciation for people as they approach the ideal of care more closely. Literature helps in making choices. But there is also real life with its perplexities.<\/span><\/p>\n

Kyrie eleison.<\/span><\/i> Lord have mercy. The point is to find real people who do not play a role but are themselves and express their emotions, even those outbursts that are socially less acceptable, such as irritation and anger, otherwise it turns into resentment. Of course we must learn to guide our aggression into proper channels, but we must not suppress anger everywhere and always, because then we become false.<\/span><\/p>\n

Or at the very least you lose contact with your soul a little in that way. Quite a few people walk around like that. There is a reliable remedy to improve contact with your own soul: writing. Trying throughout your whole life to add something to literature. My overseas friend Linda and I agree about that.<\/span><\/p>\n

Life can be seen as an odyssey, an adventurous journey inward, in which the protagonist is finally cast naked and alone by a stormy sea onto the rocky shores of his island of birth. Or the heroine; it makes no difference.<\/span><\/p>\n

Only by making the detour of the odyssey can you distinguish the cradle more clearly, thanks to two well-washed eyes. True progress lies in recreating an improved past. The continual rearranging of the alphabet is a good instrument for that, with letters like the beads of a rosary.<\/span><\/p>\n

Writing Workshop<\/h3>\n

One of the best ways to learn writing is to enter into correspondence with kindred spirits, preferably finely attuned ones. One always learns something. Linda likes to talk about successful American methods for developing creativity, especially <\/span>The Artist\u2019s Way<\/span><\/i>. It has become quite a fashion on the other side of the Atlantic.<\/span><\/p>\n

I do learn something from it. Personally I burn up most of my talent in electronic correspondence. It is also a good method for overcoming the fear of writing.<\/span><\/p>\n

When I write to Linda I have someone of flesh and blood to address, even though I have never seen her, and then the fear of the blank page disappears. But when I begin to write without clearly knowing to whom I am speaking, things quickly become oppressive. It soon ends with the impression that you are talking to yourself. Moreover that \u201cself\u201d is constantly changing as well, which does not reduce the fear.<\/span><\/p>\n

Effective writing is the fruit of a train of thought that precedes it and accompanies the writing process. The quality of the text depends on the reasoning that led to it, the order you bring into it, the choice of words and figures of speech, the care you devote to finishing, rereading and correcting, until you have a text ready to be read by the addressee or the target audience, in other words by the reader.<\/span><\/p>\n

The text is the most commonly used vehicle of formed thought. The correct sequence of words is the only guarantee that the thought will travel from you to the reader. For that a detour is required that sometimes proceeds rather bumpily, namely the process of writing, in short the writing process. It usually begins with a thought, an idea or an image that settles in the mind.<\/span>
\n<\/span>An idea may strike you while you are driving a rented Peugeot 206, as in my case, or during a siesta or while meditating. Before sitting down at the keyboard I like to reflect a little, even if only for a few minutes, when I have an exciting inspiration that cannot wait. There must be a certain tension for it to succeed. Then follows the ritual dance of fingers over the keyboard.<\/span><\/p>\n

The word processor is perhaps the most suitable writing instrument, more effective than the quill pen or a ballpoint from the firm Bic, but that is not the essence. The advice you can give to your writing-hungry students does not depend on the instrument chosen. It concerns intellectual labor.<\/span><\/p>\n

You write best when you have first arranged some order in your head in the listing of examples, the choice of arguments and the ordering of what you want to say. Choose the approach that leads most smoothly to the goal, within the framework in which your text must appear.<\/span><\/p>\n

At the same time you must surrender yourself to the process itself and not become frightened too quickly when it takes curious paths. Sometimes you must blindly trust what rolls out, when it no longer corresponds to any preparation and it seems as if the train of thought for a moment leads a life of its own.<\/span><\/p>\n

You can probably learn that best in the form of a workshop, a studio, a working place so to speak. The exchange among participants increases involvement and sharpens the desire to learn something. It also reassures the participant that he is among his peers.<\/span><\/p>\n

What you want to achieve is insight into a chain of events that gives rise to the transmission of a message from writer to reader by means of a text. Questions arise such as: \u201cWho am I and who is the reader? For whom am I writing? Who is that other? What do you already know and what do I want to add to it? Who are you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Illumination<\/h3>\n

If I have to say goodbye to sixteen years of Ibrahim and a few weeks with sixteen little Princes, there will still be the other boys on the net, and there will always be a you or you who needs to be put in the bath.<\/span><\/p>\n

Illumination ultimately comes down to the fact that again and again one must release a whole series of fantasies as unfulfilled. Your love life has become a thicket of branches and you ought to seize every opportunity to prune it. Yet instead you pout when the newest coat rack of your desire disappears from the screen without leaving an e-mail address.<\/span><\/p>\n

I must also let go of the princes and the sons, however difficult it may be. Despite all my burning desire, it’s not certain that their best development opportunities will come through us. However much I’m addicted to them, and however much it excites me, I must ultimately abandon them to their sad fate if I truly want my existence to be a blessing for myself and for them.<\/span><\/p>\n

That is the whole difference between the light of the present and the light of the hereafter. <\/span>In the light of now, I might as well kidnap one by car, or seduce him with a wad of cash, because at my age it’s a unique opportunity to taste the freshness of youth once again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0If I truly care for you, however, in the light of eternity, then I give you opportunities for development, even if that means it is better for it to happen without me. You alone can decide that. It is not pleasant for Papa, but it is the fruit of tonight\u2019s reflection. Too bad, but that is how it is, and then I will begin tidying up again.<\/span><\/p>\n

The revision of texts and photographs on the hard disk brings me back to the holiday. A unique photograph of myself with a menhir. On the way back from France I allowed myself to be permeated by the atmosphere of Burgundy and its abbeys, among other things by visiting Cluny. The landscape there is weathered and worn and of an impressive antiquity, and it contains something like the mother roots of our Christian civilization.<\/span><\/p>\n

There I came to rest. I renewed there the resolutions I made in Ars at the grave of the holy little parish priest. It is time to stop with the madness. I can no longer bear it and I set myself free. Though I still believe in world peace.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is useful and necessary to accept the limitations of this life and within this cramped framework to try to exert one\u2019s influence on society. At the urging of my mother, from my earliest youth I always assumed that I was destined for something more.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the year 2000 I was forty-four years old and it looked as though I had already had my fifteen minutes of fame. I stuck my nose through the window frame of literary success and was then condemned to live on the memory of that success.<\/span><\/p>\n

The Encounter with God<\/h3>\n

Evening talk is forgotten in the morning.<\/span><\/p>\n

No new laughing dawn seems to lie ahead anymore. I take care of my patients and I write little texts that I place on a little-known site on the internet as my only outlet. I lived with a madman as best I could. All that time I secretly occupied myself with reading about the encounter with God.<\/span><\/p>\n

Can we succeed by mystical means in catching a glimpse of the Divine? The authors are not in agreement about that. I myself believe at least that a spiritual deepening exists into which one can enter by meditating, deeply immersed in one\u2019s inner abyss, no longer conscious of oneself.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Bismillahi, rahmani, rahhim.<\/span><\/i> In the name of God, merciful and almighty. The letters testify how the One in His unfathomable decree sometimes came so close to the human soul that an encounter arose which could not be reconciled with natural laws. It has often been reported that such approaches proved scorching for the human soul.<\/span><\/p>\n

Encounters with God have given rise to some of the most beautiful pages in world literature, both in the Christian world and in Islam, from Saint Augustine to the Mevlana. It is therefore not impossible that the hidden God of Pascal might step out of His hiding place and look us in the mortal eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

That is the highest form of illumination: union, or infused contemplation, which according to Ruusbroec we can only undergo passively, enduring it in his words, passive but with full consent and free surrender on our side. God grants His grace, and it is up to us to accept or reject it.<\/span>
\n<\/span>The soul that sets out on the long road to seek the light will at the end of the path find the light. The soul that sets out toward darkness will arrive at darkness. In order to reach their goal both pass alternately through darkness and light, but the latter will invariably choose the night and the former the day of sunlight.<\/span><\/p>\n

That choice you make yourself anew every day.<\/span><\/p>\n

Note: some passages from this novel have deliberately been omitted (xxx), because they are not intended for sensitive souls.<\/span><\/p>\n

To be continued\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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