I first came across the whirling dervishes while watching a French movie with my sister. The figures of men dancing in a meditative state—wearing tall, strange hats and long skirts—appeared again alongside the beautiful “Ney Sukun” music that my friends and I listened to over and over while doing yoga in the USA. (We figured Sufis and yogis wouldn’t mind the cultural clash).

What is it they say about the third time being a charm?

While I was in Turkey, a friend gave me Elif Shafak’s book The 40 Rules of Love, implying that if I had anything else to read at the moment, it could wait until I devoured this one. I complied, especially since I had heard of the book before and was planning to read it anyway.

It was, of course, about dervishes. Funnily enough, at the time I was reading it, I was in Kayseri—about a four-hour drive from Konya, the homeland of the dervishes. The book is beautiful, by the way. I would encourage everyone to read it, even if you have no interest in Sufism. It holds a great piece of ancient wisdom.

Anyway, that’s how the idea began to form: to see it all with my own eyes, and to walk the streets carries by the memories of Mevlana (Rumi) and Shams of Tabriz. We called our obsession “Shamsomania,” since my friends and I became completely hooked on the person who essentially transformed Mevlana into Rumi the mystic and poet.

The Mevlana Museum
I don’t like museums. I am just expressing my humble opinion here. I always think it’s a waste of time, money, and energy to walk around looking at artifacts behind glass. I never know what I am supposed to feel in those moments. Awe? Immersion? Revelation? All I ever feel is boredom. I know that doesn't make me look very intelligent, but I don’t care. I don’t like museums, period.

What I do like is walking the very streets where the person once walked. To sit at the café where they liked to have breakfast. To touch the objects that belonged to them. And since touching is never part of the deal in museums, they are useless to me. I still remember how I almost got kicked out of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York because I was touching a Pablo Picasso painting.

Nevertheless, there we were at the Mevlana Museum, carrying these thoughts as my host from Konya and I entered the premises. There was some good news: it is the mausoleum of Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi, and it also served as the dervish lodge (tekke) of the Mevlevi order, better known as the whirling dervishes. So we walked, and breathed, and secretly touched everything that could be touched.

The unpleasant part came when we encountered a few overzealous old ladies who pushed everyone around in an attempt to touch all the brocades, kiss them, and practically lie on them. On the other hand, one of the most beautiful moments was exchanging glances with a little boy sitting on his mom’s shoulders, holding his hands up in silent prayer.

Sema
Sema (“listening”) is a Sufi ceremony performed by dervishes. The ritual usually includes singing, playing instruments, dancing, and the recitation of poetry and prayers, all while wearing symbolic attire. The ceremonies in Konya are held twice a week, on Thursdays and Sundays, and are free to the public.

That was one of the main reasons I came to Konya in the first place. I was nervous. A massive crowd had gathered to see the Sema that night, including some people with infants who were crying, unable to understand why it was 9 p.m. and they hadn't been put to bed with a routine lullaby.

While we waited, I thought about one of the Rules of Love:
“Whatever happens in your life, no matter how troubling things might seem, do not enter the neighborhood of despair. Even when all doors remain closed, God will open up a new path only for you. Be thankful! It is easy to be thankful when all is well. A Sufi is thankful not only for what he has been given but also for all that he has been denied.”

And I was thankful, truly.

I was determined to sit in the front row of the circular stage. It didn’t occur to me that the view from the top rows would be much better for seeing the choreography. I didn’t care about the geometric patterns the dervishes would make with their dance; all I wanted was to be close to them—as close as possible—to feel their presence, their energy, and everything else there was to experience.

Whatever I try to describe right now won’t come close to the feelings you get when you see it with your own eyes. At first, I worried it would feel like a tourist performance because of the sheer size of the crowd. I told myself, “It’s okay, it doesn't matter, they will still whirl.”

But in the end, the ceremony did not feel like it was for the audience at all. I felt like I was witnessing something deeply sacred that I wasn’t truly supposed to watch. I felt like an outsider who had barged in, along with everyone else around me. I felt we didn’t appreciate it the way we should have—especially those who talked during the Sema, walked around, left their seats, ate popcorn, and took photos with a flash.

And there came another Rule:
“The universe is one being. Everything and everyone is interconnected through an invisible web of stories. Whether we are aware of it or not, we are all in a silent conversation. Do no harm. Practice compassion. And do not gossip behind anyone’s back—not even a seemingly innocent remark! The words that come out of our mouths do not vanish but are perpetually stored in infinite space, and they will come back to us in due time. One man’s pain will hurt us all. One man’s joy will make everyone smile.”

So I smiled and practiced compassion, although sometimes it was incredibly hard.
The ritual was beautiful. The way the dervishes carried themselves, surrendered to the will of their leader, followed the music, and bowed to the divine and to each other, becoming one in a mystic trance. I couldn't move; sometimes I forgot to breathe. Even the tiniest distraction felt wrong and rude. If someone had taken a picture of my face at that moment, it would have said much more than these words ever could.

There was one particular dervish out of the twenty-eight whose movements completely mesmerized me. When it was his turn to enter the prayer-dance pattern, he approached the leader with his hands crossed over his chest, his head bowed in deep surrender. Walking toward the center, he started to turn—slowly at first, hands still on his chest. As the movements quickened, his hands lowered and then slowly rose into the air until one hand faced upward to the sky (the receiving side) and the other faced down toward the earth (the giving side). His head remained slightly tilted to the right in that same deep bow. And he whirled.

I couldn't take my eyes off him. It was as if everyone else had disappeared and he was the only one left spinning. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him levitate right then and there; that’s truly how it felt.

Another thing that struck me was the sheer diversity. The dervishes were of all ages, from a slender schoolboy to an old man who moved with the grace of a tango dancer. Some had beards, others were clean-shaven; some had long hair, others had short; some were thin, and others were stouter. Yet, they were all in the same surrendered, meditative state. They were all one.

Here and Now
I still think about the dervishes often—the long white skirts whirling in prayer, dedication, and submission—and about Shams of Tabriz, who remains a mystery impossible to solve. Another Rule comes to mind:

“The past is an interpretation. The future is an illusion. The world does not move through time as if it were a straight line, proceeding from the past to the future. Instead time moves through and within us, in endless spirals. Eternity does not mean infinite time, but simply timelessness. If you want to experience eternal illumination, put the past and the future out of your mind and remain within the present moment.”

And right now, in the present moment, I am in India, practicing and facilitating some of these Sufi dancing techniques thanks to my amazing spiritual master, Osho. The external destination has been reached; the one within is yet to be discovered.