sarma

"You're a regular whirling dervish", my grandmother used to say, not always appreciatively, when I would spin as fast as I could -shutting my eyes to get dizzy quicker- until I tumbled into a shrieking heap. I thought that real dervishes could probably do what I did much faster, maybe with a few jumps thrown in and possibly -but I wasn't sure about this- biting on knives. The woman who stormed out of an exhibition of dervish dancing at the Brooklyn Academy muttering "The Emperor has no clothes" may have had a similar childhood.

Certainly I would have preferred to see the ceremony of the Mevlevi in a church, rather than on a stage where I'm accustomed to watch theatrically-paced virtuosic dancing. However, I can't really fault something for being boring when it wasn't conceived as entertainment. And, in some strange way, my impression of what happened in the Turkish ritual has become stronger with the passing of time.

First, a group of musicians played. Drums, wooden flutes, a zither, a tiny fiddle (it looks like a rebec and is bowed, absurdly, in an upright position resting on the musician's lap). The music is sparse and decorous. Perhaps because some of the instruments have a limited range, the players embroider many melismas around a few central tones. The gently beating drum maintains an even pace, a dry tone.

The actual ceremony begins with a long vocal "eulogy". The singer too plays out throatfuls of notes that cluster around a given tone. Sometimes he squeezes out his voice; sometimes it emerges fatter and sweeter. After a flute improvisation, the nine dancers (semazen) walk several circular processionals, turning to bow to each other as they pass a piece of red cloth that lies on the ground at one end of the circle. They're sober but relaxed in their tall, almost conical brown hats, black robes over white ones. They don't bother much about walking on the beat. I've forgotten just when they remove their outer robes, but they're all in their full-skirted white gowns when they begin to whirl. As each man passes the old man who stands by the red cloth, he simply makes his walking begin to turn. He turns to the left, evenly and gently; his right foot crosses over, slightly toed-in, and his left foot pivots to accommodate to the new direction. You become very aware of that right foot lifting to generate a revolution, which in turn makes it necessary to lift the right foot again. Each man holds his right hand with the palm facing upward to receive Divine Grace; his left palm faces downward to transmit it to the earth. His turning body is the mill that accomplishes this priestly transformation. The dervishes can make their turning travel or stay in one spot. They whirl with their eyes closed, as if concentrating on some central inner spot. They show you only this continuum, this steady spinning flow.

They pause to mark off the four, no five, different "dances" that look the same but represent -are- different stages of heightened consciousness for the dancers. When they stop, their belled-out skirts twist the other way and then subside. The men form a casual circle; sometimes they are paired off, pressing slightly against each other for support before they begin again.

The old leader joins the fast dance, turning gravely and a little stiffly. After more musical improvisation and a hymn of thanksgiving, the mystical word "HUUuu . u . . u . . . " is expelled, and you feel that this midwinter whirling ceremony ending with this utterance of the name for The One is perhaps sufficient to keep the earth itself turning for another year, whether that is its real purpose or not.