across

I'm looking right now at a scrap of paper covered on both sides with writing. Most of the words are not in English. In some places the writing overlaps. Words and dates are circled, underlined, crossed out. They're written at right angles, or opposite each other, as would happen when two people, sitting at a table, each picked up the pen by turns from their side. Maybe you have a scrap of paper like this one. They're beautiful artifacts of communication. They're a record of a moment when bridges were built and gaps of understanding were bravely crossed. I am fortunate to have several such pieces of paper among my treasures.

This particular scrap, two nights ago, was a meeting with my friend from Turkey. I still wonder how we're friends, every time we talk. He's at least 15-20 years older than me. He has a Ph.D. in metallurgical engineering. He is Muslim. But we met as fellow pizza drivers - both getting by in our own meantimes, while hunting down what we really want to do. We talked first about travel, culture, food, books. We found some simple common ground. He expresses that wonder and reverence for Life that's bridged more than one gap in past friendships. Tonight I want to see how strong that bridge is. I'm here to see if we can talk about religion.

I'm telling him about the Sufi circle I've just met. I want to put them in a larger context of understanding. He's astonished that there are Sufis in Albuquerque at all, much less multiple groups. He begins - with understandable pride - to outline their history, much of which originated in Turkey. First I get a list of the various branches and their founders. Then, when I ask about Sufism's relation to the larger world of Islam, I am offered a helpful 10-minute lecture on the succession of the Prophet Mohammed and the subsequent branching into Shia and Sunni. Who, he says, can be distinguished by the fact that each follows a different founder, while embracing the practice which the _other_ group says that it in fact embraces. He draws an 'X' at this point, showing the paradoxical overlap. I can't tell if he's being ironic, or simply observant of humanity's contradictions. He does seem to have a quietly dry sense of humor, even though his speech is always dignified, intelligent, precise. But there's not quite enough common linguistic ground here for some of those subtleties.

I've been working for a long time to gain a second language. Spanish, that is: not Turkish.  And it's happening, surely though slowly. It's been a real gift to find, when a bilingual conversation occasionally finds a gap it can't cross in English, that I can sometimes jump in and complete the thought from the Spanish side. Just a few sentences, just a couple words can complete the needed bridge and keep us moving forward. Thought I'd never make it even to this level of fluency, really. But tonight's conversation reminds me what a miracle it is that communication happens at all. His English is fairly strong, but it has its gaps now and then. And I don't speak any Turkish. There are moments when he struggles, reaching for an abstraction or a philosophical footing. And when you don't have any knowledge of the other's other language, all you can do is listen. With presence, openness, and at times maybe a little imagination. It's a great practice to be reminded of. And it isn't only needed across different languages. How I could wish, so many times, that others had found such presence with me. To reach with heart, patience, and wonder toward an idea, or an experience of mine, that didn't translate into their personal lexicon. Rather than rushing to fit it into some syntax that left me misunderstood, if not judged for something I wasn't saying at all. In a very real sense, we do each speak our own language. At any rate, it's a valuable reminder for me. A practice I can try to maintain with others. Including, even, on the treacherous ground of speaking in English.

Thankfully, we don't spend all our time on history or ideology. He moves to the question I had hoped for: what's it about for you? After a little very basic sharing about the practice that I've experienced, he says, putting a hand over his heart, "But how does it feel?" And I know we're not talking about emotionalism here. This is about getting to the center. I tell him, simply, that it's about as real as it gets. He seems happy at this. "It makes no difference what one experiences mentally", he affirms, tapping his forehead, "if one is not also (pointing at his chest) experiencing heartily." It's a bit of a reach for vocabulary, but really I think his slip of words says it just about right.

There's also another, ulterior motive for this conversation. One that has nothing to do with mind or spirit. Well, maybe not as directly. I want him to show me some of his culinary expertise. He brought samples of his cooking to work a couple of times in the past. They were incredible, and I've been hinting at a wish for recipes for a couple years now. Tonight as we part ways on the sidewalk he says, "Call me in a couple weeks and we make the baklava." Now those are some words I've been waiting for.