Istanbul

The Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque stand across from each other like old friends (one significantly older than the other). The Sophia was once like Saint Peter's Basilica in Rome; emperors were crowned there. Even when Constantinople fell to the Turks, the conquerors would not destroy such a grand work of architecture. They made a handful of (religiously) necessary changes and the ancient building served as a mosque, Arabic calligraphy still hangs there on massive disks from the balconies or curling around the top of the enormous dome. The Blue Mosque was later built across from the Sophia, its architecture and size like a proclamation of both the power of the Ottomans and -- "Allahu Akbar" -- the magnificence of Allah. It is the only mosque with six minarets; at the time, the great mosque of Mecca also had six, but they added one as a matter of honor. I'm sure someone would have complained about this, but Sultan Ahmet I -- who had the Blue Mosque built -- also had the same architect give the Kaaba its golden gutters... so critics kept their complaints to themselves.

Due to the location of this hostel, I get to walk between the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia everyday. They are positively huge and beautiful (though admittedly the Mosque has been better maintained).

When there is a call to prayer, every mosque in the city bursts into the intricate song, each singer doing a slightly different version with the same words, like singing in rounds. "Allahu Akbar. La ilaha illa'Llah, Mohammedun rasulu 'Llah. Allahu Akbar": "God is Greatest. There is no god but God, and Mohammed is the prophet of God. God is Greatest." As if Istanbul itself is singing, the words echoing from all across the entire city, rolling through the streets, coming in waves.

Last night, I saw Sufi mystics dance. The same order as founded by the poet Rumi, they perform publicly to celebrate the 800th anniversary of his birth in Afghanistan. He was a man of intense love: the kind of love that destroys the world's illusions and frees the beautiful souls to express themselves as openly as the stars do. Musicians played, a drum beat lulling me into a hypnotic trance, a dulcimer's strings playing chords of light, three singers with deep and rich voices describing a world of peace and tolerance and the kind of love that -- far from boring -- makes the soul scream in ecstasy, all in harmony with the universe's own ancient sufi dance... and the sufis danced, spinning in place like the planets, slowly revolving around one who spun in the middle, their long skirts lifting and rolling, their tall hats drawing halos in the air, both hands lifted with the right palm up and the left palm down: "We receive from God and we give to man; we keep nothing for ourselves," as Rumi wrote. And in watching them spin, a part of me spun with them. We are always moving, even in the deepest stillness. Many wise men say to slow down our lives... it is a refreshing change when the soul itself is quickened and brought up to speed, whirring like a top, its vibrations creating sound and song and harmony. Allelujah.

I leave tomorrow for Tel Aviv, then to Jerusalem. I spin across the world as it spins under my feet. My path is a spiralling labyrinth drawn for a short while on the cloth of the cosmos.