qasida ma li mahbaoob

 

The Heart's Eternal Witness: Exploring the Sacred Homesickness of the Sufi Soul

Prologue: When the Heart Remembers What the Mind Has Forgotten

There exists in the human soul a peculiar form of remembrance—not of something learned and later recalled, but of something primordially known and then veiled. The Sufis call this dhikr, which means simultaneously "remembrance" and "mention." To remember Allah is to mention Him, but more profoundly, it is to awaken to a reality that was never truly absent, only obscured by the dust of forgetfulness.

The bayth (couplet-poem) we explore in this chapter emerges from this sacred remembrance. Recited at what practitioners describe as the "emotional summit" of the Rattib Rifāʿiyya, these verses do not merely describe mystical longing—they actively generate it. In the crucible of collective dhikr, as bodies sway and voices merge, this poetry becomes an invocation that tears open the heart's defenses and exposes the raw wound of separation that every soul carries.

To the casual observer, these appear as love verses—passionate, even romantic. But to initiate these words into the gathering of dhākirs (rememberers) is to witness transformation: grown men weep uncontrollably; bodies tremble with forces they cannot name; consciousness shifts into states where the boundaries between self and other, lover and Beloved, seeker and sought, dissolve into luminous unity.

This chapter examines each verse as a doorway into specific stations of mystical consciousness, revealing how this seemingly simple poetry contains a complete technology for spiritual awakening.

The Architecture of Sacred Longing

Opening Declaration: The Unforgetting Beloved

"My Beloved has not forgotten me"

The poem opens with a statement so profound it can easily be missed: not "I remember my Beloved," but "My Beloved has not forgotten me." This reversal is everything.

In conventional spirituality, the burden falls entirely on the human: You must remember God; you must pray; you must seek. The Sufi understanding begins from a radically different premise: You are already remembered. Before you turned toward the Divine, the Divine had already turned toward you. Your seeking is only a response to having been sought first.

This teaching draws from the Qur'anic narrative of divine initiative: "He loves them and they love Him" (5:54)—note the order. Allah's love precedes and enables human love. The Prophet ﷺ taught: "When My servant approaches Me by a hand-span, I approach him by an arm's length; when he approaches Me by an arm's length, I approach him by two arm's lengths; and when he comes to Me walking, I come to him running."

In the Rifāʿī context, this opening line establishes the emotional foundation for everything that follows. The murīd enters the Rattib carrying doubt, inadequacy, the weight of failures and shortcomings. This verse strips all that away: You are not forgotten. Even in your absence, you were present in divine awareness. Even in your heedlessness, you were held in divine attention.

The psychological impact is immense. Suddenly the seeker is not striving toward an indifferent universe but responding to a Beloved who already holds them in consciousness. The spiritual journey transforms from desperate seeking to joyful recognition.

The Gaze That Captivates

"He whose soft, kohl-lined eyes captivate me"

Here we encounter one of Sufism's most distinctive features: the unabashed use of beauty-language to describe divine reality. The "kohl-lined eyes" (sājī at-ṭarf al-mukaḥḥal) draw from the Arabian aesthetic tradition where kohl—the dark powder applied around the eyes—represents both beauty and protection.

But what are these "eyes" in mystical understanding? They represent the naẓar—the divine gaze, the way Allah "looks" upon creation with mercy, beauty, and irresistible attraction. The Sufi masters teach that everything in existence is held in being by divine attention; should that gaze withdraw for even an instant, all would collapse into nothingness.

The description as "soft" (sājī) conveys gentleness, tranquility, peace—the jamālī (beauty) attribute of the Divine that draws hearts through attraction rather than compulsion. This contrasts with jalālī (majesty) attributes that inspire awe and fear. The spiritual path requires both, but this poem speaks from the station of intimacy where the Beloved's beauty dominates experience.

In Rifāʿī practice, this verse often triggers what practitioners call shuhūd—witnessing. For a moment, the veil thins, and the murīd glimpses something of that divine beauty. Not with physical eyes, but with the eye of the heart (baṣīrat al-qalb). This glimpse transforms everything. Once seen, even partially, the soul can never again be satisfied with anything less.

The verse also carries prophetic resonance. Descriptions of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ emphasize his extraordinary eyes—dark, luminous, merciful. In Sufi teaching, the Prophet functions as the supreme manifestation (maẓhar) of divine attributes in human form. To be captivated by his beauty is to be caught by divine beauty itself.

The Paradox of Invisible Presence

"Even if He disappears from my physical sight… He has already settled deep in my heart"

These paired lines articulate one of Sufism's central paradoxes: the simultaneous absence and presence of the Beloved. How can something be both gone and intimately near? This is not logical contradiction but experiential truth.

The distinction between ʿayn (physical sight) and qalb (heart) marks the difference between external perception and internal realization. The Divine cannot be seen with physical eyes—"Vision perceives Him not, but He perceives all vision" (Qur'an 6:103). Yet the heart, when polished through spiritual practice, becomes a mirror reflecting divine reality.

Ibn ʿArabī's concept of khayāl—the imaginal realm—helps clarify this. Between the purely physical and the purely spiritual exists an intermediate domain where spiritual realities take perceivable form. The heart operates in this space, experiencing presence that bypasses sensory organs.

The verb "settled" or "dwelt" (ḥalla) is particularly significant. In Arabic, ḥulūl means indwelling—a theologically charged term. Islamic orthodoxy absolutely rejects ḥulūl in the Christian sense of God incarnating in flesh. Yet Sufi poetry constantly uses ḥulūl-language metaphorically. The teaching is subtle: God does not "enter" the heart as one object enters another, but rather the heart becomes transparent to divine reality—like glass becoming so pure that light passes through it completely, or a mirror so clean that it perfectly reflects.

In the Rattib gathering, this verse often marks a transition. The external stimuli—the voices chanting, the bodies moving, the room's energy—begin to fade into background. Consciousness turns inward, discovering a presence that was always there but unnoticed. The Beloved is found not by looking outward but by awakening to what already inhabits the heart's deepest chamber.

This teaching has profound implications for spiritual practice. It means the goal is not to bring God into your life but to recognize the God who has never left. Not to achieve union but to awaken to the union that predates your sense of separation. Not to become close to the Divine but to realize you were never far.

The Alchemy of Longing

"My longing for Him has grown too long. And inside me burns a fire that keeps igniting"

Now the poem shifts from recognition to experience—and the experience is one of intense shawq (longing). This longing is not deprivation but a particular form of mystical pain that the Sufis value above comfort.

Rūmī wrote: "The cure for the pain is in the pain." The longing itself becomes the path. Why? Because longing stretches the heart, expanding its capacity. A heart that feels no longing remains small, contracted, satisfied with scraps. But a heart aflame with yearning grows vast enough to contain the Infinite.

The metaphor of fire (nār) operates on multiple levels:

As purification: Fire burns away impurities, leaving only refined essence. The fire of longing incinerates attachments, pretenses, spiritual pride—everything that stands between the soul and its Source.

As transformation: Fire doesn't just clean; it fundamentally transforms matter. Wood becomes flame, solid becomes light. Similarly, the fire of divine love transforms the dense matter of the ego into the luminous energy of spirit.

As sustenance: Paradoxically, this fire "keeps igniting" (tushaʿal)—it doesn't burn out. Ordinary fires consume their fuel and die. Mystical fire is self-sustaining, even self-multiplying. The more it burns, the more fuel it generates. This is because the fuel is not external—it's the very structure of the separate self, which is inexhaustible until complete fanāʾ (annihilation).

As divine attribute: Fire appears throughout the Qur'an as divine manifestation—Moses encountering God through fire (28:29-30), hell as purifying fire, the fire that Abraham entered and found peace within (21:69). To burn with divine longing is to participate in the divine nature itself.

In physiological terms, Rattib participants often report sensations of heat—chest burning, face flushing, body temperature rising. This is not mere excitement but the somatic dimension of spiritual experience. The body, far from being obstacle, becomes instrument through which non-physical realities register in consciousness.

The teaching here challenges contemporary spiritual materialism, which seeks only pleasant experiences. The Rifāʿī path acknowledges that transformation often hurts. The caterpillar must dissolve in the chrysalis before becoming butterfly. The seed must crack open in dark earth before sprouting toward light. The heart must burn before it can be reborn.

The Vigil of Wakeful Presence

"Sleep has abandoned my eyelids. My whole night is restless, turning and tossing"

These lines describe yaqaẓa—spiritual wakefulness—through the metaphor of physical insomnia. The one touched by divine love cannot rest in ordinary unconsciousness. This is not the insomnia of anxiety but the sleeplessness of muḥāsaba (reckoning) and murāqaba (vigilant awareness).

Islamic tradition has always valued night vigil. The Qur'an praises "those who spend the night prostrating and standing" (25:64). The Prophet ﷺ said the best prayer after obligatory ones is night prayer. The last third of the night, when most sleep, is when divine mercy descends most intimately to the lowest heaven.

But the poem describes something beyond discipline—a condition where sleep becomes impossible because the heart is so awake. The Sufi masters distinguish between types of wakefulness:

Yaqaẓat al-ḥiss: Physical wakefulness—simply not sleeping Yaqaẓat al-qalb: Heart-wakefulness—awareness in the midst of worldly distraction
Yaqaẓat ar-rūḥ: Spirit-wakefulness—constant consciousness of divine presence

The "tossing and turning" (tamallul) describes the murīd's condition between states. Having tasted presence but not yet established in it, the soul oscillates—moment of clarity followed by veiling, expansion followed by contraction. This is not failure but a necessary phase. The oscillation itself generates the energy that eventually stabilizes into continuous awareness.

In the Rattib context, this verse validates the seeker's experience. You may leave the gathering in a state of grace, only to find it evaporates in the morning. You may achieve moments of profound clarity, only to lose them in the chaos of daily life. The verse says: this restlessness is not your enemy. It is the sign that you have been touched. Those who sleep peacefully have not yet been disturbed by the Beloved's call.

The Gentleness That Beautifies Union

"If only my Beloved would show gentleness toward me… It would beautify the meeting between us"

Here we find iltijāʾ—the seeker's plea not for grand spiritual experiences but simply for gentleness (rifq). This seemingly modest request contains profound wisdom.

The spiritual path includes moments of intensity that can overwhelm the psyche. Mystical experiences can crack open the personality structure, triggering what transpersonal psychology calls "spiritual emergency." The great Sufi masters understood this danger and emphasized tadarruj—gradual progression.

The plea for gentleness is not weakness but wisdom. It acknowledges human limitation while maintaining divine aspiration. The Prophet ﷺ taught: "This religion is easy. No one becomes harsh in religion without it overwhelming him. So aim for what is right, keep close to it, rejoice, and seek help at dawn, dusk, and some of the night" (Bukhārī).

The concept of beauty (jamāl) in the meeting (liqāʾ) introduces aesthetic dimensions to spirituality. Union with the Divine is not just truth or power—it is beauty. The experience should have elegance, proportion, harmony. Forced experiences, even if genuine, lack the grace of what arrives through divine timing and measure.

This teaching protects against spiritual violence—whether self-imposed through excessive practice or externally imposed through manipulative teachers. True spiritual transformation, while sometimes painful, carries an underlying rightness. When the Beloved shows rifq, the process maintains dignity and beauty even through difficulty.

In the Rattib, this verse often comes when the energy has built to intensity. It serves as a prayer: "Don't break us; transform us." It invites divine wisdom to calibrate the experience—strong enough to transform but gentle enough to integrate.

When Love Becomes Religion

"Love itself has become my religion. How could I ever turn away from His love?"

This is one of the most daring statements in Sufi poetry—and one of the most misunderstood. "Love has become my religion" (al-hawā qad ṣāra dīnī) sounds like antinomianism—abandoning religious law for pure emotion. This is precisely what orthodox critics have always accused Sufis of promoting.

But the teaching is far subtler. The verse doesn't say "love replaces religion" but that love has become the animating spirit of religion. This reflects the hadith where the Prophet ﷺ describes iḥsān (spiritual excellence) as "worshipping Allah as though you see Him, and if you don't see Him, knowing He sees you."

When love becomes religion, several transformations occur:

Obligation becomes aspiration: Prayer shifts from duty to dialogue with the Beloved. Fasting becomes not deprivation but intimacy. Every ritual becomes love-language.

Fear transforms into intimacy: While maintaining reverence, the dominant emotional tone shifts from servile fear to intimate devotion. The worshipper approaches as lover, not merely as slave.

Law becomes love-logic: Commands are followed not from fear of punishment but from love of the Commander. The ḥubb (love) doesn't negate the ḥukm (ruling) but provides its proper motivation.

Practice deepens into presence: Ritual becomes not rote performance but vehicle for communion. Each prostration becomes a falling into the Beloved's arms; each recitation, a lover's whisper.

The rhetorical question "How could I ever turn away?" expresses impossibility. Once divine love has seized the heart, worldly attractions lose their power. This is not moral effort but ontological transformation. The moth doesn't choose to fly toward flame through discipline—it cannot do otherwise once the flame's attraction takes hold.

This teaching addresses the modern spiritual seeker's confusion about the relationship between love and law, heart and form, experience and structure. The Rifāʿī answer: authentic form emerges from deep experience, and authentic experience respects sacred form. They are not opposites but dimensions of integrated practice.

The Constancy of Devotion

"Whether He remembers me or not… I never change in my devotion to Him"

This verse articulates ṣidq—truthfulness, sincerity—at the highest degree. The devotion that persists regardless of reciprocation, that loves without condition or guarantee, that continues whether rewarded by divine presence or tested by divine absence.

This is the station of the ṣiddīqūn—those whose truth is so absolute it doesn't waver based on external conditions. The Qur'an places this category directly after the prophets: "Those who obey Allah and the Messenger are with those whom Allah has blessed: the prophets, the truthful ones (ṣiddīqīn), the martyrs and the righteous" (4:69).

The verse mirrors Job's declaration: "Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him." It expresses what the Sufis call taslīm—absolute surrender that doesn't bargain with God. Not "I'll serve You if You bless me" but "I serve You whether You bless or test me."

This teaching cuts through spiritual transactionalism—the subtle marketplace where practitioners unconsciously offer devotion in exchange for experiences, blessings, or states. The Rifāʿī path insists: real love gives without calculation of return.

The psychological maturity required for this station is profound. It means the murīd has moved beyond ego-gratification as motivation. They don't practice to feel good or achieve special states, though these may come. They practice because they have glimpsed the Beloved, and having glimpsed, cannot turn away—regardless of whether the Beloved reveals or conceals Himself.

In the Rattib, this verse often resonates with those who have passed through spiritual dryness—periods when practice feels mechanical, when the heart seems dead, when divine presence seems impossibly distant. The verse validates continuing: Your constancy in absence may be more precious than your enthusiasm in presence.

The Lady of the Heart

"O Lady of my heart, have mercy on me. For because of you, my mind has lost its stability"

The address to "Lady of my heart" (sitt qalbī) introduces feminine imagery that operates on multiple mystical frequencies. In Islamic mystical tradition, the soul (rūḥ) and the secret (sirr—the innermost chamber of consciousness) are often figured as feminine, receptive principles that receive divine impregnation of knowledge and light.

The invocation of "lady" or "mistress" also echoes the courtly love tradition that Sufism both adopted and transformed. In medieval Islamic culture, the unattainable beloved lady of courtly romance provided perfect metaphor for the soul's relationship to the transcendent Beloved—longing, servitude, ennobling devotion to one who remains beyond possession.

But more technically, "sitt qalbī" refers to what some Sufi masters call the laṭīfa—the subtle center within the heart where divine realities are perceived. The heart (qalb) has layers: its outer dimension experiences worldly emotions; its inner dimension perceives spiritual realities. The "lady" is this interior perceiver, the soul's eye that sees what the mind cannot grasp.

The confession that "my mind has lost its stability" (ʿaqlī qad ikhtalala) describes what mystics call ḥayra—sacred bewilderment. This is not mental illness but the necessary disorientation that occurs when consciousness encounters realities larger than its categories can contain.

The rational mind (ʿaql) functions through boundaries, definitions, and logical structures. But divine reality exceeds all boundaries. When the heart opens to the Infinite, the finite mind cannot process the experience. Categories break down; logic becomes inadequate; normal consciousness destabilizes.

This ḥayra is valued in Sufism as sign of genuine encounter. Ibn ʿArabī wrote that the highest ʿārif (knower) remains in perpetual bewilderment, because divine reality has infinite faces—each time you think you understand, a new aspect reveals itself that overturns previous understanding.

In the Rattib, participants sometimes enter states where normal mental functioning suspends—thoughts stop, self-awareness dissolves, only the dhikr remains. This is not trance in a negative sense but wajd—finding what was sought. The mind, having exhausted its attempts to grasp the Ungrasppable, finally surrenders and allows direct experience.

The verse validates this: losing mental stability before the Beloved is not pathology but prerequisite for deeper knowing. The mind must admit its limitations before the heart can open to what transcends mental comprehension.

The Flight of Sleep, The Night of Vigil

"Do you think my sleep is peaceful? My sleep has long departed"

The rhetorical question addressed to the "Lady of the heart" continues the theme of sleeplessness, but with added dimension. The beloved is asked whether she imagines the lover rests peacefully—the obvious answer being no.

This structure mirrors the Qur'anic pattern of rhetorical questions that awaken awareness: "Do you think you will enter Paradise without being tested?" (2:214), "Do they not look at the camels, how they are created?" (88:17). The question itself performs the work of making conscious what was unconscious.

The "departure" of sleep (nomī qad raḥḥala) uses the verb for traveling or migrating. Sleep hasn't just ceased—it has journeyed away, as if it were a presence that withdrew. This personification reflects the Islamic understanding that all conditions come from Allah. Sleep is a mercy, a gift—when it departs, something significant has shifted in the soul's economy.

Classical Sufi texts distinguish between the sleep that humans need for bodily restoration and the metaphorical "sleep" of spiritual heedlessness (ghafla). The Prophet ﷺ said: "People are asleep; when they die, they wake up." The true tragedy is not physical sleep but the soul sleeping through its lifetime, never awakening to its reality and purpose.

The one touched by divine love experiences reversal: the body may need rest, but the soul becomes so awake that physical sleep becomes difficult. Stories abound of Sufi masters who slept little, who spent nights in prayer and dhikr—not from discipline alone but because the heart's wakefulness prevented ordinary sleep.

This teaching addresses the modern epidemic of spiritual sleepwalking—people going through life's motions without ever truly waking to the questions: Who am I? Why am I here? What is real? The verse says: when you truly awaken to these questions, comfortable sleep becomes impossible. You cannot wake to ultimate reality and then roll over and snooze.

In practical terms, the Rifāʿī path often involves night vigils, pre-dawn dhikr, practices that deliberately cultivate yaqaẓa. These aren't mere discipline but training in the vigilance required for spiritual perception. Just as astronomers must observe at night to see stars, spiritual aspirants must cultivate interior darkness—withdrawing from sensory stimulation—to perceive subtle realities.

The Cry for Divine Assistance

"O my Helper! O my Support! Have mercy on this broken, exposed heart"

The doubled invocation "Yā muʿīnī, yā muʿīnī" (O my helper, O my helper) expresses urgency through repetition. In Islamic spirituality, repeating divine names and invocations is believed to multiply their effect. The doubling here conveys desperation—the cry of one who has reached their limit.

Muʿīn (helper, supporter) is one of Allah's beautiful names, though not among the canonical ninety-nine. The root ʿ-w-n means assistance, aid, help. To call on Allah as Muʿīn is to acknowledge complete dependence—"I cannot do this alone; I need Your help."

This is the station of iftiqār—spiritual poverty, recognizing oneself as absolutely dependent on divine support for every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of existence. The Qur'an commands: "O humanity! You are the poor (fuqarāʾ) before Allah, and Allah is the Rich (Ghanī), the Praiseworthy" (35:15).

But deeper than general poverty, this cry emerges from the specific condition of spiritual emergency—when the heart's transformation reaches critical intensity. The description "broken, exposed heart" (al-qalb al-mubahhal) uses a term that means shattered, laid bare, completely vulnerable.

In Rifāʿī practice, this is recognized as a sacred state. The heart must break before it can fully open. The shell of ego-protection, of self-sufficiency, of pretense—all this must crack. The Arabic verb bahala carries connotations of exposing, leaving defenseless. The broken heart is dangerous—it has no shields, no filters. It can be overwhelmed by divine presence or by worldly trauma.

This is why the cry for divine mercy accompanies the brokenness. The seeker doesn't ask to have the heart un-broken (that would be regression) but for divine mercy to protect the broken-open heart, to hold the vulnerable soul with gentleness.

The invocation specifically addresses Allah, but in Rifāʿī Rattib practice, this moment often includes calling on the madad (spiritual support) of the Shaykh—Ahmad al-Rifāʿī, ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, and the chain of masters. The teaching here is that divine help often comes mediated through the baraka (blessing) of realized souls.

Participants may cry out "Madad yā Sayyidī!" (Help, O my Master!), invoking not the Shaykh's personal power but asking him to be conduit for divine grace. This is not worship of the Shaykh—that would be shirk (association)—but recognition that grace often flows through channels of those who have realized their transparency to it.

The Ruin of Distance

"Your distance, O my Beloved, has ruined me. How should I act, when separation is from you?"

The word "ruined" (ghawbanī) comes from the root gh-w-b meaning absence, distance, setting (of the sun). When the Beloved is absent, the soul experiences existential collapse—not mere sadness but the dissolution of meaning itself.

This teaching reflects a profound truth: human meaning-making requires relationship with the transcendent. When connection to the ultimate Source is felt as severed, everything else loses coherence. This is not psychological dependency but ontological reality—we exist only in relation to That which grounds existence.

The question "How should I act?" (kaifa ashʿmal) expresses paralysis. When the thing that oriented your entire life seems absent, what do you do? Where do you turn? Every action, every choice, every movement depended on that orienting relationship—without it, purposelessness.

But notice the verse doesn't ask "What should I do?" but "How should I act?" The difference is significant. What implies external actions; how implies inner attitude. Even in the state of separation, life continues—obligations remain, tasks await. The question is: how to move through life when the heart is elsewhere?

This is the existential condition of the ghuraba—the spiritual strangers who, having glimpsed their true Home, can never feel fully at home in the world. They fulfill worldly duties but with hearts turned toward the Beloved. They walk through the world but don't belong to it.

The Rifāʿī teaching here is crucial: remain functional. Separation doesn't excuse abandoning responsibilities. The true lover doesn't retreat into narcissistic suffering but carries the wound while serving. This is futuwwa—spiritual chivalry, the ability to maintain composure and continue serving even while the heart bleeds.

In Rattib practice, this verse validates the spiritual crisis many seekers experience: tasting divine intimacy in the gathering, then facing its apparent absence in daily life. The teaching is: this oscillation is itself the path. Don't demand constant presence—that comes only at advanced stations. Instead, learn to carry the pain of distance with dignity, using it as fuel for continued seeking.

The Dismissal of Critics

"Leave me alone with my love—do not criticize me. For I do not listen to anyone, nor accept their blame"

The ʿudhdhāl (blamers/critics) appear again, but now the seeker's response is more assertive. Not "I try to ignore them" but "I do not listen, I do not accept." This represents a crucial development in spiritual maturity.

Early on the path, the seeker is easily swayed by others' opinions. "Am I deluded?" "Is this path real?" "Should I be more practical?" The voices of doubt, whether external or internalized, have power. But as the murīd progresses, as direct experience accumulates, as the heart's certainty deepens, these voices lose their grip.

The command "leave me alone" (utrukūnī) establishes boundaries. Spiritual development requires protecting sacred space from those who cannot understand it. Not everyone deserves explanation of your path. Not every criticism merits response. Some relationships must be distanced to preserve what is tender and new in the soul.

This teaching challenges the contemporary notion that we must always explain ourselves, justify our choices, remain open to all opinions. The Sufi path says: sometimes closure is wisdom. Sometimes boundaries are sacred. Sometimes "I do not listen" is the only appropriate response to voices that would pull you from your path.

But crucial distinction: this applies only to voices that oppose your sincere spiritual practice, not to legitimate ethical concerns. The Shaykh's correction is listened to; the wise elder's advice is accepted. What is rejected are voices that fundamentally misunderstand or oppose the mystical path—those who see only madness where there is divine intoxication, only delusion where there is direct experience.

In the Rattib context, this verse often brings a kind of defiance—heads lift, voices strengthen. It's a collective affirmation: we stand in this practice together, regardless of what outsiders say. This solidarity strengthens each member's resolve.

The Unique Condition of the Seeker

"O my companions, help me… My inner state is not like that of someone busy with the world"

Now the address shifts—not to critics but to fellow travelers (ṣāḥibī). The cry for help comes to those who understand, who share the path, who know experientially what the seeker describes.

The distinction between "my inner state" (khālī—literally my emptiness/inner condition) and "someone busy with the world" (mushghil) marks the difference between spiritual and worldly orientation. The worldly-busy person has consciousness filled with projects, ambitions, distractions. The seeker has been emptied—not empty of presence but empty of attachment.

This is the state of faṣl—separation from worldly concerns not through rejection but through transformation of relationship. The seeker may still work, have family, participate in society—but the heart's anchor is elsewhere. There's a quality of inner freedom, of not being captured by circumstances.

The request for help from companions acknowledges a profound truth: spiritual development requires community. The Western ideal of the lone mystic achieving enlightenment in isolation is foreign to Islamic tradition. The Sufi path is traveled in ṣuḥba—companionship, the fellowship of fellow seekers.

Why? Because the path is dangerous. States can be misunderstood; experiences can inflate ego; crises can overwhelm. The community provides:

• Confirmation of experiences
• Correction of deviations
• Support through difficulties
• Celebration of breakthroughs
• Accountability against delusion

The Rattib itself is this community in action—bodies and voices joining to create a field of energy greater than any individual could generate. When one person's energy flags, others carry them. When doubt arises, collective certainty sustains.

This verse teaches: don't walk this path alone. Find your people. Create or join a circle. The Beloved is found in solitude, but the path toward that solitude requires companions.

The Sacred Oath

"I swear by the Prophet ﷺ… No one is like my first and true Beloved"

The poem concludes with a vow—swearing by the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ that no beloved compares to the True Beloved. The oath form (barrt yamīnī—my oath is fulfilled) has legal weight in Islamic tradition. To swear by the Prophet is to stake one's spiritual integrity on the statement.

Why swear specifically by the Prophet rather than by Allah? Islamic jurisprudence generally discourages oaths by other than Allah. But Sufi tradition understands that swearing by the Prophet is, in effect, swearing by the divine light that perfectly manifested through him. The Prophet is the wasīla—the means, the intermediary through whom divine reality became humanly accessible.

The description of the Beloved as "first" (al-awwal) carries multiple resonances:

Primordial: This love existed before your conscious awareness—written in pre-eternity when souls testified "Yes!" to Allah's lordship (Qur'an 7:172).

Primary: This love has ontological priority over all other loves. It is the source from which capacity for love flows. You love others with a love that ultimately belongs to and flows from the One.

Original: Before conditioning, before socialization, before ego-formation, the soul knew this love. All seeking is returning to original knowledge.

The declaration "no one is like" (mā ka-) expresses absolute uniqueness. This is tawḥīd—divine unity—applied to love. Just as Allah has no partners in divinity, the divine Beloved has no competitors in the lover's heart. All other loves become transparent to this one Love.

In the Rattib, this verse often brings participants back from the intensity of earlier verses into a place of rest. The affirmation of the Prophet's centrality grounds the experience in Islamic tradition. However ecstatic the states, however overwhelming the emotions, the path remains connected to the prophetic model.

The oath also functions as resolution—after the journey through longing, burning, brokenness, and bewilderment, the seeker reaffirms commitment. Whatever states come or go, whatever presence or absence is experienced, the fundamental orientation remains unchanged: toward the Beloved, through love of the Prophet, within the tradition.