Interview with Connie Zweig: A Moth To Rumi's Flame

Connie Zweig Jungian-oriented psychotherapist and author of several non-fiction books including the widely acclaimed Romancing the Shadow  has just published a novel about the life of Sufi poet Rumi called A Moth To The Flame. I reviewed the book earier this week and Connie agreed to talk to me by phone as an interview for my bog. I will publish a second interview with Connie in a few weeks on the subject of shadow-work!

You can read my review of A Moth To The Flame By Connie Zweig here.

Here is the interview:


Hi Connie, tell me about the dream that got you started on writing A Moth To The Flame.

Well, Julian, I don’t talk about this much. But eight or ten years ago I was immersed in reading Rumi. Like so many other people, I was just loving his evocative images and themes, especially his longing for the divine. So, I was reading various translations at night before bed. And one night this turbaned man appeared in my dreams, walking along a tree-lined street, his caftan swinging. At first I had no idea who it was. But then he came again the next night, and the next. And I realized it was Rumi telling me a story. At first, I didn’t want to pay attention. I was afraid that it was too important, and I had too much going on. But he kept coming. So, I began to write down the dreams. And soon, I told my husband that there’s something important here. But it may turn life upside down.


Although you are quite accomplished in the realm of non-fiction, I know
this was your first novel. What have you had to go through to bring it
into being?

Yes, I think that was part of the fear of the dreams. If I was being called to tell a story – and if I was to heed the call -- it meant that I would have to leave the comfort zone of non-fiction and learn narrative, character, and so on. I felt totally inadequate to the task. At some point, I decided to explore the possibility. So I went to the UCLA writing program and began to study fiction, a beginner again after a life of writing and editing.



Tell me about the translator you met and your subsequent experiences in
Turkey.

While I was fumbling about what to do with the dreams, a flier arrived in the mail for a course in Rumi at USC. We drove downtown and met a Persian woman, who had been teaching Rumi for years. She told the story of his meeting with his beloved teacher, Shams. When Shams asked a pressing question, like a koan, Rumi slipped from his donkey onto the ground, fainting, she said.

I interrupted: no, he transcended, Samadhi, I said.

She look shocked and asked me who I was, why I was there. So, I told her about the dreams and my history of meditation practice –and she offered to translate Farsi texts for me. It was a godsend, one of those mythic moments when a guide or ally arrives.

Then we went through dozens of books and found – to my surprise – that the story in the history books and the story in my dreams were the same tale. I was caught.
A few years later, I knew I needed to learn more about Islam and Rumi’s Sufi order. So my husband and I traveled with the Mevlevis of America to Konya, Turkey, the site of his home and school, which are now a museum. We spent a few weeks with the Sheikh who is head of his lineage, learned practices from him, and enjoyed his gracious hospitality. I fell ever more deeply in love.

Rumi's second wife converted from Christianity to Islam. Was there much
intermingling of Jews, Christians and Muslims in his time?

In Afghanistan, when Rumi was born 800 years ago, there was a peaceful, multicultural community, where people of different faiths lived side by side. But they left because the Mongols came through and destroyed the city.

In south-central Turkey, where he spent his whole adult life, there were also churches beside mosques and a period of tolerance prevailed. But don’t forget about the Crusades in the background, creating a feeling of fear and persecution.


Do you think there is a relationship between the historical period and
its  issues as described in the book and the times we live in now?

In the big picture, it was a time of conflict between Islam and the West, although so many particular communities lived together peacefully. There was also conflict between fundamentalisms in both faiths. There are many Sufi mystical orders with different rules and practices, all in relation to fundamentalist Islam, which still goes on today. And the same takes place in Christianity and Judaism, which tend to marginalize the mystics.


Why do you think Rumi is the most read poet in America right now?

His images and themes are so universal, so archetypal, that they speak directly to the psyche, which is timeless. So here we are, 800 years later, and he’s as current as ever. Of course, in the Muslim world, he was always their Shakespeare, and children have grown up with his poetry for generations.

But there’s a feeling level to this too – his poetry of longing speaks to our longing, our yearning for union with the divine. His grief speaks to our grief, his ecstasy to our ecstasy.


I am curious about the love of Rumi's poetry as a bridge between
old-world and contemporary spirituality, as well as between Middle
Eastern and Western worldviews. To what extent do you think this is
possible?

I recently went to a celebration of Rumi at Stanford. The hall was filled with Persian scholars and Western college students. And everyone was transfixed and full of joy.
But I think many Persians have a mixed response to the West’s love of Rumi – they enjoy our appreciation of his genius, and they fear that he has been co-opted, misunderstood by Western translators, and turned into a commodity. And, of course, there’s some truth to both.

I was excited to hear about "The Year of Rumi." What is that?

UNESCO has declared 2007 the year of Rumi because it’s his 800th birthday celebration – and I think they saw his as a potential bridge, as you said. As a result, there are events all over the world this year and awareness of Rumi is growing. Readers can find local events by Googling Rumi and 800. If they haven’t yet seen the Turn, the dance of the whirling dervishes, it’s an elegant and poignant ceremony.


In A Moth to the Flame, Shams, Rumi's beloved sheik and spiritual friend, seems to
me a fierce, uncompromising, self-righteous wildman of sorts. Tell me
about who this character is to you and how he relates to what we know
about the historical figure.

When I first started writing, I wanted to be true to the facts. And I got paralyzed. Then I remembered that I was writing fiction, which means I could develop characters, interpret them in my own way, and still remain as true to history as possible. So, when I loosened up a bit, I began to portray Shams in a way that other writers might not. I saw him as a wandering dervish who lived within Islam but, at the same time, was a bit of a rebel or rule breaker, a very highly evolved, realized sage who searched his whole life for a disciple, to whom he could transmit his level of consciousness and his practices. In my characterization, he didn’t care much for conventions but focused all his attention on Rumi. But that doesn’t mean he was uncaring or unkind.

On another level, Shams is Christ-like in that he sacrifices himself for Rumi’s awakening.
During the time I was developing the story, Shams’ own writings were not yet translated, as they are now by William Chittick and Kabir and Camille Helminski.


I enjoyed the way you placed the story of Rumi and Shams in the
religious and social context of their time and place. I feel like you
managed to conjure not only the grace and mystery of their spiritual
twinship, but also the incredible community upheaval caused by the
awakening Rumi went through. Can you tell me what you think about the
relationships between personal transformation and social norms?

That’s a big question! We all live within a cultural context, fish in water. And we are created to some extent by that culture, its constructs, norms, values, and so on. For many people, development in our culture requires stepping out of the cultural frame, really questioning authority, acting in rebellious ways. We see this so much in adolescents and also at midlife. This is not true in other cultures, by the way, which emphasize individuation less and family/tribe more.

For Rumi, this happened as a result of meeting his beloved teacher. Although they remained within the Muslim frame, they adopted practices to cultivate a direct relationship with the divine, some of which were forbidden. And Rumi’s family and students were aghast, then envious of their intimacy. Eventually, of course, Rumi attained union and transcended religion at the level of consciousness, but he lived out his life as a Sufi teacher within the confines of community.

For me, this happened when I entered a spiritual community at 19 and left behind my family’s values, in fact, adopted the reverse values in many ways. I see now that it was a safe way to separate and differentiate from an enmeshed family. And I see that in some of my clients, who use spiritual communities as substitute families and teachers as substitute parents. This can serve us for awhile, but it doesn’t necessarily encourage all lines of development, such as cognitive (critical thinking for oneself) or emotional (acceptance/expression of authentic feeling) growth.

I don’t meant to reduce the spiritual search to psychology; it’s just one level of explanation.
So a seeker may join a community with a crazy wisdom teacher, such as Chogyam Trungpa or Rajneesh, whose whole aim is to break attachments to cultural values and social norms. Or she may join a network or church whose aim is socialization into mainstream culture.
But if their purpose is the development of higher levels of consciousness, if they take on practices that cultivate higher states, then their values and priorities will change. But these changes may not happen on an obvious level of lifestyle or behavior, such as living outside mainstream culture. The dozen or so people whom I know well, who are awake, look very conventional from the outside, although their inner experiences of the world are totally distinct from those in the conventional waking state – they experience no duality, no separation from anything at all. What could be more natural – or more radical – than that?


I thought you did a pretty beautiful balancing act between acknowledging
that both shadow and light were present in Rumi's Sufi community and in
Islam in general. Can you say more about that?

Well, shadow and light are present in every traditional religion and mystical stream. There is so much that is valuable --- a container for the psyche’s longing, practices to cultivate mindful attention, a guide for the journey, a community for support. And so much that is destructive – restrictions of images and exploration for the psyche, practices that repress emotions or critical thinking, a guide who may be coercive or abusive but certainly wishes to maintain authority, and a community that tends to support cohesion, which implies conformity and obedience.

In the case of 13th century Sufism, like Islam in general, there were behaviors that were generally proscribed for men and women, and still further limitations imposed on women, such as modesty, lack of education, lack of choice in marriage, obedience, and so on. It’s difficult to try to see these values in their own cultural context; we view them through our contemporary lens, which makes them shadowy.

But we don’t want to miss the beauty and grandeur of this tradition because of these issues. One female Sufi saint, Rabi’a, is well known for having awakened in those times.


There is a contemporary controversy about whether or not Rumi and Shams
were lovers in a carnal as well as spiritual sense. We have the great
popularizer of Rumi, Coleman Barks strongly opposing that idea and
Andrew Harvey on the other end strongly campaigning for it. What do you
think?

I don’t like speculating about things I can’t know. I believe they were objects of projection even then, as now. And it wouldn’t matter to me either way. But my own tendency is to think that this was a spiritual bond, and leave it at that.

I want to ask you about the sexuality, the violence, and the role of the
female characters in the book.  I felt like you brought a sensitivity to
the inner lives of the women, a compassion towards the perpetrators of
the violence, and an honesty about the innate sexuality that defies
dualistic repression, yet still causes great conflict for the
characters. Are these good examples of the shadow in your book?

Because of my vigilant awareness of shadow, I couldn’t really write characters who were flawless. They wouldn’t be too interesting or realistic! So as I entered each person’s world, I tried to find their strengths and weaknesses, their gifts and flaws. As a writer, I often have potential readers looking over my shoulder. And I knew as I drew out Rumi’s shadow issues, or Shams’ flaws, that I would lose people. If they idealized these figures, they would be angry with me; if they disagreed with my portrayal, they might put down the book – or write negative reviews!

So, you know, it took a certain amount of courage to tell Rumi’s story through my own lens, as it did while disclosing my own spiritual issues in The Holy Longing. And, yes, the shadow issues of that cultural moment and of those characters are tricky and even scary. But let’s remember, it’s fiction – a work of imagination.

And I really want people to enjoy it!


I am sure they will.

Thank you so much, Connie, I'll look forward to our next conversation.