What This One Awkward Childhood Memory Has Taught Me

There’s goodness in all things, poopy or not

“Soul, if you want to learn secrets, your heart must forget about shame and dignity.

You are God’s lover, yet you worry what people are saying.” ― Rumi

Cringy, awkward yet elevated, would be the most concise description of this single memory. In hindsight, it unintentionally taught me about finding my inner strength and peace. I learned not to give a flying monkey about people and their judgments. It was a belated lesson learned.

I’m pretty sure all of you have some trippy memories of one of your parents or maybe of them together? *eek!* I know, honey — no, we can’t undo it.

However, my memory is far from that. You may take your head out of the gutter.

Once upon a Sufi festival in 1986

Growing up with a Sufi mother, I had attended my fair share of Sufi events in my lifetime. I would like to describe my earliest fond memory as a living dream of colours twirling around loosely yet intentionally designed to perfection. People in constant motion yet slow enough to catch a glimpse of their peaceful and serene faces. I sensed warmth, compassion and most importantly, love. These are my brief memories of the vivid images engraved in my head.

Six-year-old me was beyond thrilled to hear we’re going to that colourful and lovely smelling place again. This time it felt different from any other time I recall.

My father’s brother had managed to get us inside a Sufi lodge with our mum. This was my first time! See? I knew it was going to be different. As far as I’ve learned, those events were only intended for men. At least in Syria, it was.

We sat in the right corner of the plateau where the dervishes would perform. At the time, we were the only children there. That in itself already felt awkward, but I didn’t care — it felt special. The fragrance of incense was that of old roses with a hint of grandma. Please, don’t ask what that is.

With a child’s eye, I felt like Gulliver in the Land of Brobdingnag, with the plateau slowly filling with male giants dressed in big long white dresses. Few of them looked like they had not left this festival for an eternity.

Some had soft drums, others were holding ney flutes, and the rest were empty handed. We thought we had to clap, so my siblings and I decided to clap. My uncle gave us that look and told us this is not Europe. OK — still not awkward.

The music started soft and was building up as the men whirled around and murmured something mystic and hypnotising. I have never witnessed anything like that. Six-year-old me thought this was better than seeing cute dolphins springing through a hoop. Magical is an understatement.

My mum started moving and shimmying her shoulders a bit as the beat sped up. Oh, that’s nice, I thought.

Suddenly, she stood up and jumped in with the men and began dancing and whirling. The dervishes, who made way for her, continued their ritual undisturbed.

What just happened here.

Attendees whispered and mumbled while looking at the Western lady and us kiddos with dismay — despite the respect my mother earned from the dervishes by giving her way to express herself. Some were pointing at her and were shaking their heads in disbelief. I felt uncomfortable and just wanted to go hide somewhere.

Poor little me didn’t know what to make out of all this. A few moments after I absorbed my initial confusion and sense of awkwardness, I started feeling the elevation. I had just witnessed the strength and perseverance of a woman. That, my fellow earthlings, was glory imbodied in a lady with jeans, a linen shirt and a yellow turban. Oh, and sandals.

That was my mother, and she looked like an unravelling dream. With sandals.

What that awkward moment taught me

It wasn’t until recently that I appreciated this experience. When I say recently, I mean two years ago. What a waste of my life not finding any goodness in this memory.

“Woman is the light of God.” ― Rumi

• I learned that women indeed are God’s light. That day was awkward, but a woman’s presence brought infinite light to the event. Which I initially saw as an embarrassment.

In Arabic, the translation for the word Nation is Ummah. Ummah comes from the word Um, which means Mother. Without us women, there is no nation, no world, thus no light. You’d go blind without us!

• I learned that spirituality has no place, gender or time. What those people judged my mother for was based on pure ignorance. Culture is beautiful but can be detrimental in some cases. I learned to take and leave from culture what works for me. The rest can go. People will always judge.
• Last but not least, I learned that I need to do whatever it takes to find my inner peace and strength. Be with the people who elevate you — ditch the ones who make you doubt yourself. Just like those dervishes, they brought the best out of my mum and other followers.

This awkward memory has brought to me the beauty of meditation and contemplating. To listen to the rhythm of my heart and follow. Being in the presence of like minded people and good energy will without a doubt elevate you. This is not just when you meditate. This is a mindset and concept for your entire stay on this planet. Thanks for embarrassing us, Mum! ❤

Thank you for staying around. Until next time, be kind.

Jay