On Divine Unity and the Meaning of Bismillah

In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful: it is a young sapling from the garden of the Wise One. The proud palm tree of the garden of holiness, the standout line in the great book of the sacred. With the alef of the divine alphabet it stands as God's tablet, guiding the child of reason toward reason. What is the alef? The root of every letter, a single drop of water that fills countless vessels. What is the alef? Pure being without name or trace; all else is just a name, whether soul or body. To one who knows its worth, the alef shows that the shape of every letter is merely the alef's clothing. Every letter was born from repeating the alef; whatever was born of it returns to it in the end. Look toward the alef in its undetermined state; see that every determined form has no foundation of its own. Distinction is nothing but a matter of perspective; in the undetermined, one and a thousand are the same. Strip even the drawn shape of the alef away from the alef; blind the eyes of the shallow-sighted. The drawn form is a stain upon the true alef; clothing is only an ornament for the blind of heart. When the eye's capacity grew too narrow, colorless being appeared in a hundred colors. If you cleanse your eye of its inflammation, you will see one single form where there seemed a hundred. Once the secret of the alef is laid bare, strand by strand, seek out the bond between Bismillah and the Quran. All that is in the Quran is nothing but Him; that is all shell, this alone is the pearl. Every chapter and verse within the Quran is the one Unity flowing through multiplicity. The whole of the Quran is gathered in Bismillah; not just Bismillah, but the very seal-spell of God. You reach the named only through the name; be a true man if you would break this spell. If you become aware of what Bismillah means, you become like the sun, giving the moon its provision. If you fill your eyes with this collyrium, you will rise above everything you can imagine. But this is not within the reach of mere desire; stop chasing profit, this is pure madness. Who has carried off the longed-for pearl from this sea? Who has died satisfied at the edge of this spring? Love draws only a little dew from this garden; reason too drags itself a single step behind. In this meadow this rose lights up the whole garden; at this spring the parched lip still burns with thirst. Only the one whose own rose no one picked has gathered the rose; only the one who saw before all others reached the goal. If you take refuge in the Named One, you become a master in the art of this name. The name cannot be unveiled except through the Named; only divine power can break this spell. He of whom the entire world is but a name, the treasure of both worlds is held within His spell. He brings into being all that is outer and inner, a being beyond both absolute freedom and determined form. The rare architect of the mansion of existence, the farmer of the field of generosity. He lines the dark, languid, longing eye with kohl, dyes the garments of the garden's children. He gives the rose its beautiful coloring, tailors the lofty robe of the rose. He paints the angry, coquettish eyebrow with indigo, and sprinkles dust on the head and face of supplication. He gives splendor to the graceful stature of the cypress, and kindles the flame in the grieving heart of the pheasant. He lines beauty's seductive narcissus eye with kohl, and sets the disheveled lock of beauty curling. The display-seller at the head of love's bazaar, the one who draws the circle with love's compass. He lights a lamp inside the shrine of the bud, and sets a scarred candle in the tulip's basin. He nurtures the body of dust with a soul, and tends the garden of the body with flowing water. Who gave the breeze its soul a body of flowers? Who gave the moving candle the basin of a body? Who made the secret of the waist appear? Who revealed the mystery of the mouth? Who created the quarrel in the coquettish glance? Who made the mechanism of laughter so narrow? Who gave the soul its savor through speech? Who gave a smile its intoxicating rapture? Who makes the locks of the lovely heart-stealing? Who lines the dark eye with kohl? Who steals the heart with a sidelong glance? Who stirs the lovely ones' temper into anger? Who hands the spiteful eyebrow its battle-sword? Who makes the child-like glance so playful and bold? Who raises the house of the rose from water? Who pitches the tent of heaven without ropes? Who can pull the ear of the sky? Who can cut the navel-cord of the earth? Who turns the April raindrop into a flawless pearl? Who dyes the fingers of coral red? With a single twitch of His spiteful eyebrow He set off the trembling earthquake of the planet's body. Wondrously, from sleight and color, He blended the sweetness of peace into the bitterness of war. The plain of eternity-past is entirely His arena; the realm of eternity-to-come is His field of play. He is the polisher of the mirror of every breast, the one whose reflection the mirrors display.