I did not have to delve into my deeper self, nor did I have to analyze every line to get the gist of what was being said. In Rumi’s, The Sheikh who Played With Children, I was the sheikh of which the story is told. Unlike Rumi’s other poems, this poem was a blatant translation. The metaphors, instead of being wrapped in each line of prose, they are the circumstances of the story that is being told poetically. The poem itself is straight forward in the sense that it tells a story from the beginning to the end. What needs to be analyzed in this poem, though, are the physical events, which I will shed some light on. A great, great poem, indeed, relatively speaking, it completed me. I will therefore use this poem as a platform to introduce myself.
The people here want to put me in charge. They want me to be judge, magistrate, and interpreter of all texts. The knowing I have doesn’t want that. It wants to enjoy itself. I am a plantation of sugarcane, and at the same time I’m eating the sweetness. -Rumi
A guy comes to town and asks one of the residents the whereabouts of a wise person. The resident points to a man playing with children. This man is riding a stick horse. The resident mentions how deep this man’s wisdom flows and concludes the statement saying, “…but he conceals it in the madness of child’s play.” The guy goes over to the kids and the man riding the stick horse and he asks to know a secret. The man was not interested, plus, the stick horse he was riding was being unruly. After a short plea, the supposed wise man stops without playing, as his stick horse will not obey his commands to relax.
At this point, the guy who came in search of a wise person, could not bear to ask a serious question to a man riding a stick horse employed by his childish imaginary, so instead he jokingly asks if there is a woman to marry in the neighborhood. The man gives him some general information about the types of women in the world and tries to get back to the children and his game. The guy wants to know more; he wants him to explain what he means. The sheikh galloped back and explains in depth, but basically, what he said. The guy, who was once joking must have realized he was before a man of great wisdom and intellect because he calls him “Master” and asks to ask one more question.
What is this playing that you do? Why do you hide your intelligence so? -Rumi
Call it a case of hindsight bias, a premonition, the holy spirit; call it what you want, but I knew this poem was going to arrive at this question. From the moment the resident pointed the sheikh out, I knew exactly what this poem was about. How did I know? Figuratively and/or metaphorically speaking, I too can be found playing with children and when I am found, I am doing so for the very same reason. Unlike Rumi, though, I was not born in the 1200’s, perhaps two decades before this poem was written, but in 1981, centuries later. Yet, the logic of this poem is a logic that I live by today. It’s a logic that keeps me fresh, young, and up with the Jones’.
I do not want to be the boss. For one, the boss is the top hit in mafia wars and in my personal life not only do I not like my current boss, there have been bosses that I have not liked before and I have heard about ogres from people that I personally know and respect. Also, the work that has to be accomplished in order to be considered a good boss is emotionally draining and that type of work often goes unnoticed because the dynamics of it can not be understood. I do not care to be rich, either. We know the song, Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems, we’ve heard that money is the root of all evil, we know the stock people put in money, as well as the blood, sweat, and tears, I do not have to reiterate those ideas. I simply do not want to be rich because richness is relative from what I see – What is rich in America is not the same rich that is found in other cultures. As a matter of fact, most other cultures put stock in other cultural goals that perpetuate financial stability. I want to explore and indoctrinate myself in ethics that will perpetuate money. I do not want to be the life of the party because those people are envied and most of all, I would rather not be considered smart.
All I do is watch and think. I do my best to put my little observations, experiences and resources together to find the answer or answers that make sense. I enjoy looking at different possibilities and acting accordingly. I think there is a story to be told in everything and I do genuinely enjoy storytelling. Human nature is interesting and so is behavior. I want to make the most out of every interaction that I have with another human being and I enjoy transforming the smallest things into something to learn from. Perhaps these things are smart or these are the things that a smart person does or enjoys, but no one really likes a know it all, so I humble myself. Perhaps it is smart of me to humble myself or is it that smart people know when and how to humble themselves? Either way, I flirt with humility for ethical purposes and for my own personal morality: As many dumb decisions as I have made, am making, and will make, I can not accept, with a straight face someone thinking that I am any smarter than they are.
For this reason, I play video games, me and my partner of 3 years are still found a love that is old school. I have loads of fun at my part-time job at an established coffee house making peanuts at 30 years old, I’m in school, I know all of the hot urban dances and songs, I joke around, and I smile even though this is an ignorant and sad city. I have to grow up a couple of times in a month, sometimes. For some months, I have to grow up once or twice in a week and when/if my back is up against the wall, growing up is not even a second thought, it comes naturally. I use growing up as a defense mechanism and I only do it when I have to, otherwise, just like in the poem, the expectations for the supposed smartness that I seem to have would drain me of the inherent ability I have to find happiness.
The poem mentions before it closes that people use their smartness for show and to argue and either way, pretty much, there isn’t any glory in that. Rumi ends this poem pretty much saying keep your smarts to yourself and you will look better.
Eff u 