The Reeds Lament: Short Story

Welcome to today's story.

The Reeds Lament is inspired by the teaching of Jalal ad-Din Rumi, the opening of the Masnavi.

The ache of missing the divine is, paradoxically, the closeness of the divine. To follow the longing honestly — rather than filling it with distraction, or explaining it away — is the path.

Enjoy, dear ones.

Transcript

Hello dear ones and welcome to today's story. The reeds lament. At the edge of a wide reed bend. Where the river slowly moved in the late summer heat. And the ridge grew tall as a man and close as family. Then lived a young musician named Farid. Who had decided, After years of ordinary life, That he would make something beautiful. He waded into the shallows one morning. And chose a read carefully. Torn straight. With walls neither too thin nor too thick. A reed that felt in his hands. Like something that had been waiting. He cut it with his knife and carried it home. And for three days he worked. Hollowing, Shaping, Smoothing the joints. Burning the finger holes with a fine heated needle. Tuning the distances by ear until they seemed right. On the fourth morning, He held it up to the light. It was a good flute. Perhaps the finest he had ever made. He had given it beauty. He had given it form. He had given it, He felt, A purpose. He brought it to his lips. The sound that came out was not what he expected. It was not celebration. It was not the proud, Carrying note he had imagined. It was something between a cry and a question. Low and continuous. As if the flute were not performing, But confessing. He pulled it away, Startled. Why do you weed? E. R. He felt and was slightly embarrassed to feel. That this was the right question. The flute or the air moving through it. Or the memory of the reed bed living now inside the hollow wood. Seemed to answer in the only way it knew. It played the same note again. And in the sustained breath of it. Fareed Hurd or thought he heard. The following. I am crying for the place I came from. You have made me beautiful. It is true. You have given me a voice. That every note I play is the same note. The note of the reed bed. Of the water moving past the roots. Of the other reeds beside me in the current. Bending together when the wind moved through. Of the mud and the light. And the particular quality of the silence just before dawn on the river. Farid was quiet for a moment. He had not thought of this. He had thought about his own skill. Is patient work. Is careful ear. The beauty he had fashioned. Are you in pain? He asks. I don't know, Said the flute. Is the river in pain when it is thirsty for the sea? A longing is very large. But I am not sure it is suffering. It is more like. . . It is the whole of what I am. Fareed turned the flute over in his hand. The wood was smooth. Warm from his palms. In the grain of it, He could still see faintly. The pattern of the living reed. The memory of growth. Of green. Of standing in moving water. Then, What is the music? He asked. The music is the longing, Said the flute. That is all it has ever been. Every song I play is the same story. I was there. I was home. I was separated. I do not know the way back. But I am going. Fareed sat with this for a long time. The afternoon moved around him. The shadows of the olive trees in the yard lengthen. And then disappeared into dusk. He thought about his own life. The strange, Persistent ache he had always carried. And never quite been able to name. The feeling. At odd moments. Of being slightly displaced from himself. The way certain music. Or certain light on water. Or the smell of rain on dry earth. But open something in him without warning. He thought. Perhaps I am also a reed cut from something. He brought the flute to his lips again. This time, He did not try to shape the sound or correct it. You simply let the air move through. The music that came out was not beautiful in the way he had planned. It was better than that. It filled the small courtyard. With a sound that seemed to come, Not from the instrument. But from much farther away. Traveling a great distance to arrive here in this moment. In this body. Still warm from the journey. Somewhere across the city. In a narrow room. A woman stopped what she was doing and listened. She did not know why she was crying. She did not try to explain it. She simply sat. With the feeling. The way one sits with something precious. Carefully. Without clinging. Giving it all the room it needed.