Earlyin the morning, outside, small alley. Coffee. On the left the carpet vendor builds up shop. Blocking the road for cars with a road sign, consisting of a wooden trestle with a carpet draped over it. Advertisement and infrastructure. The fence is used as a display, covered with carpets. On the right, overseeing the main road, a souvenir shop owner meticulously decorates his showcase. Every item finds it’s place. A vast array of Nazars in all sizes and forms. Plastic Sultan figurines. Cat shaped cushions with prints of them on the glimmering fabric.

The Heartstone and me traveled here to find a Sufi Master for a blessing. Walk through this city filled with cats. Sculptures of big cats, with manes, and their breathing cousins. I’m walking towards a Sufi Tekke (Sufi lodge) of the Cerrahi Tariqa. Paul, a dutch Sufi, told me about the it. After a long walk I find the place. Enter through the doors, but nobody’s there. Eventually I find a security guard who tells me there are meetings on Mondays and Thursdays..

Across the Tekke there is a small bookshop. Through the shop window I see a display of books, a combination of famous Sufi writings and Soccer player biographies. Inside I ask if they have any books in English. The man searches and finds only one book. ‘Beyond the Coral Reef’ written by Muhyiddin Sekur. I purchase it.

On the far end of the big bridge with hundreds of fishermen someone is trying to catch an octopus with a big plastic bottle on a rope. Using a sort of Jellyfish as bait. What kind of bait do you use to catch good fortune? A girl passes with an Octopus tattoo on her arm.

Meet the great Bosphorus for the first time. Dividing Europe and Asia. Search engine: ‘Bosphorus etymology’: In ancient greek Bosphorus means something like Cow Passage. Presumably after the story of Io. A girl who had sex with Zeus and was turned into a cow afterwards. A Jealous Hera sent a gadfly to torment her continuously. So she had to travel the world without rest. At some point crossing a body of water. Which was later named Bosphorus, Cow Passage. Here she was comforted by Prometheus, the Titan who took fire from the gods and gave it to humanity… Fire, today, used to grill the incredibly juicy Balik Durum, for my lunch, on the street corner where I’m sitting now.

Overlooking the river. The phone rings. My friends are calling. They say they found a poem they thought I’d like. And will send it. The poem they sent is ‘Conversation with a stone’ by Wislawa Szymborska. Last week I got into contact with the Dutch Sufi named Paul. Who in his first message, hearing about our journey, sent me the same poem..

He tried to get me in contact with a Sufi master, but she didn’t want to
bless the stone. He helped me a lot though and also adviced me to go
to the Cerrahi Tekke. Of which I am thankful.

On my way back to the hotel a guy waves at me from the other end of the square. His name is Murat, who works as a shoeshiner. He polishes my shoes. We talk about his three kids. Afterwards we share tea and a cigaret.

As Coincidence dictates, Szymborska’s poem:

Conversation with a Stone by Wislawa Szymborska

I knock at the stone’s front door.
It’s only me, let me come in.
I want to enter your insides,
have a look around,
breathe my fill of you.”

“Go away, ” says the stone.
“I’m shut tight.
Even if you break me to pieces,
we’ll all still be closed.
You can grind us to sand,
we still won’t let you in.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.
“It’s only me, let me come in.
I’ve come out of pure curiosity.
Only life can quench it.
I mean to stroll through your palace,
then go calling on a leaf, a drop of water.
I don’t have much time.
My mortality should touch you.”

“I’m made of stone, ” says the stone,
“and must therefore keep a straight face.
Go away.
I don’t have the muscles to laugh.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.
“It’s only me, let me come in.
I hear you have great empty halls inside you,
unseen, their beauty in vain,
soundless, not echoing anyone’s steps.
Admit you don’t know them well yourself.”

“Great and empty, true enough, ” says the stone,
“But there isn’t any room.
Beautiful, perhaps, but not to the taste
of your poor senses.
You may get to know me, but you’ll never know me through.
My whole surface is turned toward you,
all my insides turned away.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.
“It’s only me, let me come in.
I don’t seek refuge for eternity.
I’m not unhappy.
I’m not homeless.
My world is worth returning to.
I’ll enter and exit empty-handed.
And my proof I was there
will be only words,
which no one will believe.”

“You shall not enter, ” says the stone.
“You lack the sense of taking part.
No other sense can make up for your missing sense of taking part.
Even sight heightened to become all-seeing
will do you no good without a sense of taking part.
You shall not enter, you have only a sense of what that sense should be,
only its seed, imagination.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.
“It’s only me, let me come in.
I haven’t got two thousand centuries,
so let me come under your roof.”

“If you don’t believe me, ” says the stone,
“just ask the leaf, it will tell you the same.
Ask a drop of water, it will tell you what the leaf has said.
And, finally, ask a hair from your own head.
I am bursting with laughter, yes, vast laughter,
although I don’t know how to laugh.”

I knock at the stone’s front door.
“It’s only me, let me come in.”

“I don’t have a door, ” says the stone.