“Where is the best place to meet your woman?”

I was with my cousin Samer last week at a St Georges Road Eatery when he asked me this question. It was unexpected and I have never really thought about it. I was thinking somewhere along the lines of a beach resort in Mauritius. The thing about Samer is that he is an unusually poetic guy who can have the most unusual perspectives to ordinary things. Like once before he told me that

“I hold my Lover in my heart as a mother holds her child in her tummy”.

It’s a refreshing perspective that describes a whole host of experience for a simple subject : intense love, yearning, anxiety, curiosity, expectation, sacrifice, pain, protectiveness, miracle, hope, anguish, impatience etc.

Think for a second about it…

What would your answer be to the question of “Where is the best place to meet your woman”

His answer was very simple

“In my eyes”

A simple answer that was pregnant with meaning. He did not care where he met her as long as her image is in his eyes and that would be an ideal location for his woman to be because it means that his woman is within his reach when she is found in his eyes.

 I came across a beautiful poem one other day printed on a wedding invitation card that reflected upon such mental meanderings about love. It is probably one of the best poetry I’ve read that captured the essence and meaning of love. It told me love is something spiritual felt at the very heart of the human consciousness. Something that can never be manufactured or truely imitated. If there is anything that makes us essentially human it must be the capacity to feel and experience an irrational serendipitous love deep within the soul. 

This piece is by Rumi the great Persian Mystic:

I am only the house of your beloved,

Not the beloved herself:

True love is for the treasure,

Not for the coffer that contains it.

The real beloved is that one who is unique,

Who is your beginning and your end.

When you find that one,

you’ll no longer expect anything else:

that is both the manifest and the mystery.

That one is the lord of states of feeling,

dependent on none;

month and year are slaves to that moon.

During the day I praised you and I didn’t know

At night I laid with You and I didn’t know

I had thought that I was myself

But I was entirely You

And I didn’t know.


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