Elif Shafak is one of Turkey’s most acclaimed and outspoken novelists

Shams 

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KONYA, OCTOBER 30, 1244
Before I met Rumi, just one night prior, I sat on my balcony at the Inn of Sugar Vendors. My 
heart rejoiced at the magnificence of the universe God had created in His image, so that 
everywhere we turned, we could both seek and find Him. And yet human beings rarely did that. 
I recalled the individuals I had met—the beggar, the prostitute, and the drunk. Ordinary people 
who suffered from a common malady: separation from the One. These were the kind of people 
that the scholars failed to see while sitting in their ivory towers. I wondered if Rumi was any 
different. If not, I made a note to myself that I should be a conduit between him and the 
underbelly of society. 
The town had finally gone to sleep. It was that time of night when even the nocturnal animals are 
reluctant to disturb the reigning peace. It always made me both immensely sad and elated to 
listen to a town sleep, wondering what sorts of stories were being lived behind closed doors, 
what sorts of stories I could have lived had I chosen another path. But I hadn’t made any choice. 
If anything, the path had chosen me. 
I remembered a tale. A wandering dervish arrived in a town where the natives didn’t trust 
strangers. “Go away!” they shouted at him. “No one knows you here!” 
The dervish calmly responded, “Yes, but I know myself, and believe me, it would have been 
much worse if it were the other way round.”
As long as I knew myself, I would be all right. Whosoever knows himself, knows the One. 
The moon showered me with its warm glow. A light rain, as delicate as a silk scarf, began to fall 
on the town. I thanked God for this blessed moment and left myself in His hands. The fragility 
and brevity of life struck me once again, and I recalled another rule: Life is a temporary loan, and 
this world is nothing but a sketchy imitation of Reality. Only children would mistake a toy for 
the real thing. And yet human beings either become infatuated with the toy or disrespectfully 
break it and throw it aside. In this life stay away from all kinds of extremities, for they will 
destroy your inner balance. 
Sufis do not go to extremes. A Sufi always remains mild and moderate.
Tomorrow morning I will go to the big mosque and listen to Rumi. He can be as great a preacher 
as everyone says, but in the end the breadth and scope of every speaker are determined by those 
of his audience. Rumi’s words might be like a wild garden, full of teasels, herbs, spruces, and 
shrubs, but it is always up to the visitor to pick his fancy. While pretty flowers are instantly 
plucked, few people pay attention to plants with thorns and prickles. But the truth is, great 
medicines are often made from these. 
Isn’t it the same with the garden of love? How can love be worthy of its name if one selects 
solely the pretty things and leaves out the hardships? It is easy to enjoy the good and dislike the 
bad. Anybody can do that. The real challenge is to love the good and the bad together, not 

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because you need to take the rough with the smooth but because you need to go beyond such 
descriptions and accept love in its entirety. 
There is only one more day before I meet my companion. I cannot sleep. 
Oh, Rumi! The king of the realm of words and meanings! 
Will you know me when you see me? 
See me!