Chapter Eight: On Gratitude for Well-being

I can hardly draw a breath to thank the Friend, for I know no thanks that would be worthy of him. Every hair on my body is a gift from him; how could I offer thanks for each single hair? Praise be to the generous Lord who brought his servant out of nothing into being. Who has the strength to describe his kindness? All descriptions drown in the greatness of his glory. The Wondrous One who shapes a person out of clay and grants him spirit, wisdom, mind, and heart. From your father's loins to the final slope of old age, look at the robes of honor he bestowed on you from the unseen. Since he made you pure, stay aware and pure, for it is a disgrace to go to the grave unclean. Keep wiping the dust off the mirror again and again, for once it rusts, no polish can restore it. Were you not at first only a drop of fluid? If you are truly a man, drive the ego out of your head. When by effort you gain your daily bread, do not lean on the strength of your own arm. Why don't you see the truth, you self-worshipper, that it is he who sets your arm and hand in motion? When good comes to you through your striving, know it as God's grace, not as your own effort. No one has won the prize by his own strength; give thanks to the Lord who grants success. You cannot stand a single step on your own; help reaches you from the unseen, moment by moment. Were you not once a speechless infant, silent of boasting? Yet food came to your belly through the navel. When they cut the cord and that supply was severed, your hand reached out and clung to your mother's breast. A stranger whom the world afflicts with hardship is given, as remedy, water from his own hometown. So the child was nourished within the womb, fed through the channel of the stomach. The two breasts he longs for today are also two springs from the place that raised him. The mother's lap and warm embrace are paradise, and the breast within is a stream of milk. She is a tree that nourishes life, and the child is her precious fruit upon the branch. Are not the veins of the breast joined to the heart? So if you look closely, that milk is the blood of the heart. He sinks his teeth like a needle into her blood, yet she has woven her love into that blood-drinking child. When his arm grows strong and his teeth grow firm, the nurse smears the breast with bitterness to wean him. With patience she calms his craving for milk, until he forgets the sweet breast entirely. You too, still a child on the road of repentance, with patience your sin will be forgotten.

A young man turned his back on his mother's wishes, and her aching heart burned like fire. When she was helpless before him, she brought out his cradle: 'You cold, faithless one who has forgotten your promise, weren't you once weeping, helpless, and small, the one whose crying kept sleep from my eyes for whole nights? In that cradle, didn't you lack all strength? You couldn't even wave a fly away from yourself. You are the same one troubled by a single fly, though today you are a chief with a strong grip.' You will return again, deep in the grave, to a state where you cannot even keep an ant off yourself. How will your eye ever light its lamp again once the worm of the tomb has eaten the marrow of your mind? When you see someone with veiled eyes who cannot tell a road from a pit as he walks, if you gave thanks that you can see, good; if not, then you too are one with covered eyes. No teacher taught you understanding and judgment; God planted this quality in your nature. If your truth-hearing heart forbade you something, then truth itself would not sound like falsehood to your ears.

Look how, by divine craft, a single finger is fitted together from several joints. It is madness and folly, then, to raise a critical finger against His work. Reflect on how a person walks: how many bones were forged and joined together. Without the turning of ankle, knee, and foot, you could not lift a single step from the ground. Bowing before this human form is no hard task, for the spine within is not one solid rod. Two hundred vertebrae are set upon each other: that is the delicate frame He shaped in you. Your veins run through your body, you of pleasing nature, like a land threaded by three hundred and sixty streams. Sight sits in the head, along with thought, judgment, and discernment; the limbs serve the heart, and the heart is honored by knowledge. The beasts crawl low, faces to the ground, while you stand upright on your feet, straight as a letter alif. They bow their heads down to eat, but you, with dignity, bring the food up to your face. It does not suit you, with such nobility, to lower your head to anything but worship. In His bounty He gave you grain, not chaff, and did not force your face into the grass like the cattle. Yet do not be deceived by this pleasing form; take on a fine character instead. What matters is a straight path, not a straight, tall stature, for even the unbeliever looks much like us in form. The One who gave you eyes and mouth and ears, if you are wise, do not strive against Him. Suppose you crush your enemy with a stone; at least, out of ignorance, do not war against your Friend. Those of wise nature, mindful of grace, nail down His blessings with the nail of gratitude.

A prince fell from his dark horse, and the vertebrae in his neck were thrown out of place. His neck sank into his body like an elephant's, so that his head could not turn unless his whole body turned. The doctors were baffled by his case, until a philosopher came from the land of Greece. He twisted the head back and the muscle straightened; if not for him, the prince would have been finished. Later, when the philosopher came before the king, the king did not honor him with a single kind glance. The wise man bowed his head in shame; I heard that as he left he muttered under his breath: If I had not twisted his neck back yesterday, he would not be twisting his face away from me today. He sent a seed by a servant's hand, saying: place this on his incense burner to burn. The smoke made the king sneeze, and his head and neck locked up again just as before. In apology they rushed after the man, searched everywhere, but scarcely found a trace of him. So do not do it: do not turn your neck from thanking the Giver, or on the Last Day you will rise with nothing to show. I heard that an old man, in anger, scolded his son: 'You brazen, shameless boy, I gave you an axe to chop firewood, not to tear down the wall of a mosque.' The tongue was made for thanks and praise; one who knows the truth does not turn it to slander. The ear is a passage for the Quran and good counsel; do not strain it to hear lies and falsehood. The two eyes are good for beholding the Maker's work; look past the faults of your brother and friend.

Night exists for your rest, and day as well, with the bright moon and the sun that lights the world. The sky, like a servant laying out a carpet for you, spreads wide the banquet of spring. Whether it is wind and snow, rain and mist, or thunder swinging its club while lightning strikes like a sword, they are all agents under orders, nurturing the seed you planted in the soil. If you go thirsty, do not fret at the hardship, for the water-carrier cloud will bring your water on its shoulder. From the dust it brings color and scent and food, a feast for the eye, the mind, and the palate. It gave you honey from the bee and manna from the air, dates from the palm, and the palm from a slender shoot. Every palm-grower bites his hand in wonder: no one has ever cultivated a palm like this! The sun, the moon, and the Pleiades are for you, lanterns hung from the ceiling of your house. From your thorn it brings a rose, and musk from the deer's pouch, gold from the mine, and fresh leaves from dry wood. With its own hand it drew your eyes and brows, for such intimate work cannot be left to strangers. The Almighty who raised you so tenderly has nourished you with blessings of every kind. With every breath you must say from your soul that thanking Him is not the work of the tongue alone. My God, my heart bleeds and my eyes are wounded, for I see Your gifts far exceed anything words can hold. I will not even speak of beasts, birds, ants, and fish, but the whole host of angels in the highest heaven, even they have offered only a little of the praise You are due, speaking barely one part in ten thousand thousand. So go, Saadi, wash your hands and close your book: do not keep walking a road that has no end.

No one knows the worth of a good day until one day of hardship comes his way. The poor man's winter in a year of scarcity means nothing to the one who owns wealth. The healthy man who never lay a night in pain never once thanked God for his good health. When you are brave and quick on your feet, stop for the slow ones as an act of thanks. Let the young be kind to the aging old, let the strong show mercy to the weak. What do those beside a great river know of water's worth? Ask the ones stranded in the blazing sun. The Arab sitting by the Tigris feels no grief for the thirsty in the desert of Zarud. Only one has known the value of good health who melted for a while, helpless, in a fever. How could a dark night seem long to you, when you just roll from one side of your soft bed to the other? Think of the one tossing up and down with fever, for the sick one knows how long the night can be. The master woke to the beating of the drum; how could he know how the night passed for the watchman?

I heard that one autumn night Toghrol passed by an Indian watchman on his rounds. Under the falling snow, the rain, the torrents, the poor man was shivering, faint as a distant star. The king's heart welled up with pity for him. He said, 'Here, put on my fur-lined coat.' 'Wait a moment there by the wall, and I'll send it out to you with a servant.' As he said this, the morning breeze began to blow, and the king slipped back into his royal hall. He kept a fair-faced page among his retinue, one his heart leaned toward a little. Watching that lovely Turk delighted him so much that the poor Indian slipped from his memory. The promised coat passed only through the watchman's ears; by his ill luck, it never reached his shoulders. Was the pain of the cold not enough for him, that fate's cruelty piled on the pain of waiting too? Look at what the watchman said at dawn while the sultan slept in heedless comfort: 'Have you, in your good fortune, forgotten me, now that your arm is wrapped in an embrace?' 'Your night passes in pleasure and delight; how would you know what kind of night passes over us?' One caravan buries its head in the cooking pot, while others sink to their knees in the sand. Hold your boat by the shore, master, for the helpless are drowning, the water is over their heads. Wait, you nimble young men, for there are frail old travelers in the caravan. You sleep easy in your litter, the camel's reins in the driver's hand. Plain or mountain, stone or sand, it's all one to you; go ask the stragglers left behind on the road. A mountain of a camel carries you along; how would you know the man on foot is swallowing blood? Those who sleep at peace, their bellies full at camp, what do they know of the one gone half-starved?

The watchman had tied a man's hands and locked him away; all night long he lay troubled, his heart aching. In the dark hours of that black night, a sound reached him: someone outside was moaning about his poverty. The chained thief heard these words and said: How long will you cry over hardship? Go to sleep. Off with you, poor man, and thank God that the watchman hasn't bound your hands tight together. Don't wail so much about being destitute, when you can see someone worse off than yourself.

A man with nothing on his back borrowed a single coin and turned it into a rough, unfinished cloak for his body. He complained: My unbridled luck, under this raw covering I am cooking in the heat. As he boiled with hardship like something half cooked, a voice called from the prison pit: 'Quiet!' Give thanks to God, you half cooked fool, that you are not bound raw hand and foot the way we are.

A man was passing by a devout ascetic, and judging by his looks, took him for a Jew. He struck a hard blow to the back of his neck, yet the poor holy man gave him his own shirt. Ashamed, the man said: 'What I did was wrong. Forgive me. How can this deserve a gift?' The ascetic answered: 'In gratitude I bow my head, because I am not the man you took me for.' A person of good character, plain and unpretentious, is better than one with a fine name but ruin inside. In my eyes, a night thief on the highway is better than a hypocrite dressed as a saint.

A man who had fallen behind on the road was weeping: 'Who in this whole plain is more wretched than I am?' A man who had seen the world said to him, 'Listen, if you are truly a man, heed this one word.' 'Go and be grateful that you are not riding on a donkey, since after all you are a child of Adam, not a donkey yourself.'

A pious scholar passed a drunk sprawled on the ground, and grew proud of his own virtue and restraint. In his arrogance he did not spare the man a glance. The young drunk raised his head and said: 'Old man, go and give thanks that you knock at the door of blessings, for deprivation is what comes of self-conceit. Do not laugh at someone you see caught in a trap; you too might suddenly stumble into one. After all, is it not within the power of fate that tomorrow you could lie drunk like me? Heaven wrote your destiny toward the mosque; do not mock another whose lot fell in the temple. So, Muslim, join your hands in gratitude that the fire-worshipper's belt was never tied around you. No one who seeks Him walks there on their own; the Friend's grace drags them along by force. See where fate has led things: whoever leaned on anyone but God was blind indeed.'

A trace of healing is woven into honey, but not enough to stand against death. Honey sweetens the temperament of the living, but for the pain of dying there is no cure. For someone barely breathing, whose soul has left the body, what good is honey in the mouth? One took an iron mace to the skull, and someone said, rub sandalwood on the ache. Flee from danger as much as you can, but do not clash fists with fate. As long as the insides can take drink and food, the body stays fresh and clean in form. This house falls fully into ruin when temperament and food no longer agree. The natures are moist and dry, hot and cold; a man is composed of these four dispositions. When one of them gains the upper hand over another, the scales of nature's balance are broken. If the cool breath of breathing does not pass, the stomach's heat throws the soul into an uproar. And if the cauldron of the stomach does not cook the food, things turn out badly for the delicate body. Those who truly know do not set their hearts on these, for they will never stay in harmony for long. Do not think the body's strength comes from eating; it is the grace of God that nourishes you. By His truth, even if you laid your eye on sword and knife, you could not fully pay the debt of thanks to Him. When you press your face to the ground in worship, praise God and do not admire yourself. Glorifying, remembrance, and devotion are a kind of begging; a beggar has no business being proud. Suppose you have done Him some service: haven't you always lived off the fief He granted you?

First He placed devotion inside my heart, and only then did this servant bow his head at His threshold. If no grace toward good comes from God, how can anything good pass from a servant to another? Do not just marvel that the tongue confesses; look to see who gave the tongue its speech. It is in true knowledge that the human eye lies open, an eye opened wide upon the heavens and the earth. How would you grasp the low places and the high if He had not opened this door before your face? He brought your head and hand out of nothing into being; He set generosity in this hand, and worship in that head. Otherwise, how could the hand have learned to give? It is impossible that the head bowed of its own accord. In His wisdom He gave the tongue and shaped the ear, to be the two keys to the locked chest of the heart. If the tongue did not carry the story out, how would anyone know the secrets of the heart? And if the ear did not work as a spy, how would any news reach the king that is the mind? He gave me sweet words to be a reader; He gave you hearing and understanding to be one who knows. These two forever stand at the door like chamberlains, carrying word from king to king. Why think to yourself that your deeds are fine? Look instead: it is His grace at work. The gardener carried to the king's hall a fresh new flower, plucked from the king's own garden.

In Somnath I saw an idol carved from ivory, studded with jewels like the pagan goddess Manat of old. The sculptor had shaped its form so perfectly that no finer image could ever be made. From every direction caravans streamed in to behold that lifeless figure. Kings of China and Chigil had set their hopes, like Saadi, on getting loyalty from that stone-hearted idol. Eloquent men had come from every land, beseeching that silent thing in prayer. I was baffled, unable to fathom the mystery: why should a living soul worship a lifeless object? There was a Magian priest I had dealings with, a kind-spoken man, my roommate and friend. Gently I asked him: Brahmin, the workings of this place amaze me. These people are enchanted by this feeble statue, trapped down in the pit of error. It has no strength in its hand, no motion in its foot; knock it down and it cannot rise again. Don't you see its eyes are made of amber? Seeking loyalty from stone eyes is a mistake. At these words my friend turned enemy; he blazed like fire with rage and lashed out at me. He alerted the Magians and the temple elders, and I saw no friendly face in that gathering. The Zend-chanting fire-worshippers fell upon me like dogs fighting over that bone. Since the crooked path was straight in their eyes, the straight path looked crooked to them. For however wise and enlightened a man may be, to the ignorant he seems the fool. I was left helpless as a drowning man, seeing no way out but to play along. When you see the ignorant bent on hatred, safety lies in yielding and softness. So I praised the head Brahmin loftily: Old master, you who expound the Avesta and Zend, I too am delighted by this idol's image; its shape is lovely, its stature charming. Its form strikes me as wondrous to behold, yet I know nothing of its inner meaning. For I am only a passing guest of this place; a stranger can barely tell the good from the bad. You are the queen of this chessboard, the counselor to the king of this shrine. What is the meaning hidden in this idol's form? For now I am the first among its worshippers. Worship by blind imitation is a straying; blessed is the traveler who walks with awareness. The Brahmin's face lit up with joy; he approved and said, Well spoken, worthy man. Your question is sound and your conduct fine; whoever seeks proof reaches his destination. I too have traveled much like you, and seen many idols unaware of themselves, except this one, which every morning from its place raises its hands to God the Sustainer. If you like, stay right here tonight, and tomorrow this secret will be revealed to you. By the elder's command I stayed the night there, trapped like Bijan in the pit of misery. A night as long as Judgment Day, with Magians around me at prayer without ablution. Priests who never let water touch them, their armpits like carrion left in the sun. Surely I had committed some great sin, to endure such painful torment that night. All night I was caught in this grip of grief, one hand on my heart, the other lifted in prayer, when suddenly the drummer struck his kettledrum, and a rooster crowed from the Brahmin's yard. The black-robed preacher of night, without dispute, drew the sword of day from its sheath. Dawn's fire caught the tinder, and in a moment a whole world blazed with light. You would think that in the land of Zanzibar the Tatars had suddenly burst in from a corner. The wrongheaded Magians, faces unwashed, came to the temple from door, field, and street. Not a man in town nor a woman stayed behind; there was no room left in that idol-house for a needle. I was sick with grief and heavy with sleep, when suddenly the statue raised its hand. All at once a roar went up from them; you would think the sea had come to a boil. When the temple emptied of the crowd, the Brahmin turned to me with a laugh: I know no doubt remains for you now; the truth is clear and falsehood is undone. When I saw how firmly ignorance held him, how deeply absurd fantasy was fused into him, I dared say nothing more of the truth, for the truth must be hidden from the people of falsehood. When you see the upper hand holds the power, it is no manliness to break your own fist against it. For a while I wept in feigned devotion, saying I regretted what I had said. My weeping swayed the hearts of the unbelievers; no wonder if a stone is worn away by a torrent. The attendants came running toward me and took my arm with honor. Full of apology I approached the ivory figure seated on a golden stool upon a teakwood throne. I kissed the little idol's hand, saying under my breath: curse it and every idol-worshipper. For a few days I passed as an unbeliever, playing the Brahmin, versed in the Zend teachings. When I saw I had become trusted in the temple, my joy could barely be contained on this earth. One night I locked the temple tight and ran left and right like a scorpion. I searched below the throne and above, and saw a curtain embroidered with gold. Behind the curtain crouched a fire-worshipping priest, keeping watch, the end of a cord in his hand. At once the whole thing became clear to me, as iron turned soft as wax in David's hand: when he pulled the cord, naturally, the idol would raise its hand as if crying out. The Brahmin was ashamed before me, for the stitches showing on his work were a disgrace. He bolted, I gave chase, and hurled him headfirst into a well. For I knew that if that Brahmin lived, he would work to spill my blood. He would gladly see me destroyed, lest I expose his secret. When you learn of a corrupt schemer's ways, finish him off once you catch him. For if you leave that scoundrel alive, he will never want you to live. And if he bows in service at your door, given the chance he will cut off your head. Do not follow at the deceiver's heels; once you have gone and seen the truth, give him no mercy. I killed that wretch completely with a stone, for the dead tell no tales. When I saw I had stirred up an uproar, I abandoned that land and fled. When you set fire to a reed bed, beware the lions, if you have any sense. Do not kill the offspring of a venomous snake, and once you have, do not linger in that house. When you have stirred up a wasps' nest, flee the place before you are stung. Do not shoot your arrow at one quicker than you; and if he falls, seize your chance at once. In Saadi's pages you will not find the counsel to keep standing once you have undermined the wall. After that upheaval I came to India, and from there by way of Yemen to the Hejaz. Of all the hardships that befell me, my mouth never tasted sweetness until today, under the good fortune and support of Abu Bakr Saad, the like of whom no mother has borne, before or since. From the tyranny of fate I came seeking justice; I came for refuge under this sheltering shade. Like a servant I pray for this reign: God, keep this shade everlasting, for he laid on me a balm beyond what my wound required, a balm worthy of his own bounty and grace. How can I ever repay this blessing, even if my head served as feet in his service? I found relief after those chains, yet those lessons still ring in my ears. One is this: whenever I raise my hand in need to the court of the Knower of secrets, I remember that Chinese idol, and it throws dust in the eye of my conceit. I know that the hand I lifted, I did not raise by my own power. It is not the enlightened who lift their hands; the unseen pulls the string from behind. The door of goodness and worship stands open, yet not everyone is able to do good. This is the very barrier: one cannot enter the royal court except by the king's command. The key of destiny is in no one's hand; the only absolutely powerful one is God alone. So, you who tread the straight path, the credit is not yours, it belongs to the Lord. Since He shaped your nature well in the unseen, no ugly deed can spring from your character. The same One who put sweetness in the bee put venom in the snake. When He wills to ruin your kingdom, He first scatters a people in distress through you. And if He has mercy upon you, He brings comfort to the people through you. Do not grow proud upon the path of righteousness; they took your hand and helped you rise. The words are useful, if you will listen; you reach the great ones if you walk the path. If you are granted entry, you find a station where they spread for you the feast of honor. But you must not eat alone; remember the helpless poor. Perhaps you will send a mercy after me, for I am not confident in my own deeds.