Only small groups of people were allowed into the tomb at one time so their experience would be as intimate as possible. When I entered, I saw a friend sitting at the far end of the tomb, weeping and weeping. As I sat down, I thought to myself, "Maybe I ought to be crying. Maybe I ought to feel sadder about it. After all, I won't be able to touch Baba again, or ever have his embrace."
With that, my eyes were drawn to the sunlight outside the window, and I looked off at the hill where some trees were silhouetted against the sky. Everything danced and sparkled, and I could hear Baba saying, "You silly child. Do you think I'm tied to that tomb? Don't you know I'm out here too? I'm everywhere."
I was receiving a different form of his embrace now. And from that day on, I've never had the feeling that Baba was anywhere but right with me, wherever I was. It started almost immediately at the darshan. Afterward, practically every place I went I'd see reminders of him: perhaps something in pink or turquoise that evoked his jackets, or his image in flowers the flowers that used to hum with life and sing to me as a child. I'd see him every place I went until it simply became impossible to feel like he'd gone.
"Even if you can't love me, remember I'll be loving you," he had said. And I know he does. Again and again since January 1969, I've had ample proof of that proof that he's here, that he watches over us and attends to the minutest details of our well-being.
SPREAD MY LOVE, pp. 237-238
2004 © Sufism Reoriented