The secret bloom of Riḍván

The last two weeks, give or take, were Riḍván in the Baha’i faith.  This is perhaps the holiest season in our faith, during which, 147 years ago, Baha’u'llah revealed himself as the promised one of the world’s religions.  Like the Jews, we Baha’is consecrate time itself, making temples of memory for moments in sacred history. We commemorate the momentous events that happened in that garden in Baghdad by coming together as a community to reflect and re-organize our affairs.

Unfortunately, I have not yet properly experienced the formal side of Riḍván.  I left the Philadelphia Baha’i community last year for Europe right before the season, and this year I was so harried with work and stress that, in truth, I completely forgot about it.  People respond to stress in different ways.  Some become hermit-like, others lash out — I dissolve.  It becomes physically difficult to concentrate, I undersleep or oversleep, and my ability to manage my daily affairs, already flimsy on the best of days, crumbles.

Yet, Riḍván is a time of rejuvenation, the effects of which, we Baha’is believe, are inexorable and ripple beyond the confines of our community.  Despite outward appearances — the wars and suffering plaguing humanity, the untold dwindlings of distant stars, and perhaps even the tearing of the time-space continuum itself — inwardly the cosmos, human and beyond, heals from the long dark winter and rejoices in unseen bloom.

The cycle is enigmatic, yes, and inevitable, true, but it is not deterministic.  The wheel turns whether we want it to or not; what remains to us is how we choose to respond.  Do we resist it?  Do we ignore it?  Or do we latch onto it and ride?  But these questions are, if you’ll forgive the pun, putting the cart before the wheel, for first one must know how to even sense the cycle.  How can we smell invisible blooms?

Although I’m a philosopher, I’m not talking about something abstract (remember: I’m a bad philosopher).  Rather, I’m talking about bewustzijn van de subtiele dingen, consciousness of the subtle things, or as one of my teachers, Professor Desmond, would say, to read the sign posts.  So, for me, the bloom has come in unsolicited gestures of generosity and altruism.

On the one hand, the gestures were very personal, from new friends here in Flanders, like Patricia, who helped me clean my disastrous room; or Andrea, who then decorated it; or Johannes, who asked me to stay in the building next year, despite all the many problems and disappointments; or crazy Sandie, who offered her friendship in a way that was complexly simple and meaninglessly meaningful.

On the other hand, the gestures were faceless, in the form of the Flemish Government offering me an incredible scholarship to stay next year and continue my studies here at Leuven. The Belgian taxpayer has now not only allowed me to attend her best university at her expense, but she is now paying me to do it, too, and never once asking for anything in return.

When I think about some of the very negative things I have often said about Belgium since arriving last semester, I am ashamed and humbled. I was speaking out of emotional frustration, yes, but I was still wrong. I am reminded of the words of Baha’u'llah:

“O Emigrants!  The tongue I have designed for the mention of Me, defile it not with detraction. If the fire of self overcome you, remember your own faults and not the faults of My creatures, inasmuch as every one of you knoweth his own self better than he knoweth others. “

Indeed, I was overcome by the fire of self.  And yet somehow the hidden tenderness of the cosmos has looked through the blaze of that self, to the frail and often foolish ember within it, and rather than punish it by heaping upon more coals for the flames to burn, this great agapeia has chosen to douse the fire with the soft rain of abundancy and mercy.

To conclude, above I said that I have not experienced the formal version of Riḍván, so perhaps what I have experienced this year was its informal side.  And perhaps my arrival in Europe last year, which also coincided with Riḍván, was equally informal.  The difference between the two kinds of Riḍváns, and indeed, with all the holidays of the Baha’i faith (or any religion, for that matter) is a matter of consciousness within the self.

I don’t do enough to cultivate that consciousness, which necessarily must be more than just mental and emotional in nature, but equally behavioral.  I must try more to make my outward behavior conform with my inner awareness, my tongue speak only the soothing smoke of truth and deeper authenticity, and not the licking fires of ego and falsity.

The trick is how not to tip over into rigidity and become some mockery of the Stoic and Confucian sage, but clearly that cannot be accomplished by will and self-cultivation alone.  I need the help of the cosmic tenderness that turns, imbues, and yet also surpasses the wheel, and also beyond that great energy, of God.  And so I pray: Thank you, and help me to give myself over to you.