Illumination Through the Whirl
How Does One Describe the Indescribable?
I’ve been asking myself this question a lot lately. Every time someone asks me about the Sema ceremonies I’ve been attending for the past two years—these sacred gatherings hosted by LILA—I find myself grasping for words. The truth is, words always seem to fall short. How do I describe something that feels so deep, so beyond language? Yet here I am, trying to put into words what feels almost unspeakable.
Maybe it’s because I want to remember—not just the outer moments, but those inner ones too. The subtle shifts inside me, the ones that are harder to name.
Each Sema feels like its own world. No two are the same, and I love that about them. I’ve realized that every ceremony has its own pulse, its own energy. It’s like the Divine creates something new each time, and we all get to be part of that unfolding. I often think of it as spiritual jazz—improvised, unpredictable, but always in tune with something greater than us.
Before I even step into the circle, there’s this quiet, almost nervous anticipation inside me. I carry so much—my day, my thoughts, my emotions—but the moment I enter the space, I’m reminded that this is a time to offer it all up. Not in some grand way, but just by showing up. By being present. Presence. That word feels so big sometimes, but really, it’s just about being here, fully, vulnerably, at the edge of who I think and feel I am.
“O my Lord, let my entry be by the Gate of Truth, and likewise my exit by the Gate of Truth, and grant me from Yourself a supporting authority.”
That night in Montclair, I was feeling particularly heavy. My mind was stormy with thoughts, anxieties, frustrations. I even found myself wondering, What am I even doing here? But something pulled me in. As I entered the circle, I whispered the same prayer I always do: "O my Lord, let my entry be by the Gate of Truth, and likewise my exit by the Gate of Truth, and grant me from Yourself a supporting authority.” A part of me doubted whether I’d feel anything. I wasn’t in the best headspace.
But the moment I stepped into the room, I could feel the shift. There was this Silence—not the kind of silence that feels empty, but the kind that feels alive. It’s strange how silence can sometimes be louder than noise. It was like the room itself was breathing, inviting me to exhale, to let go. My body started to soften before I even noticed it happening.
As the ceremony began, I could feel myself settling deeper into that silence, into my own being. The music—the rhythms of the Daff and the haunting notes of the Kamancheh—was like a lifeline, guiding me back to myself. I started chanting Alhamdulillah—a simple, automatic kind of gratitude. And then, something shifted. It was like a flood of light poured into me, not just around me, but inside me. In that moment, I saw myself—really saw myself. I had been living in this dimly lit room, catching glimpses of my soul through a flickering candle. But now, everything was illuminated. The windows and doors of my inner world flung wide open, and I was seeing with a new clarity.
I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe that’s a lesson in itself.
The music grew louder, the beats of the Daff resonating in my chest like a second heartbeat. And Gratitude—it wasn’t just a word in my mind anymore. It was a feeling, pulsing through me, filling every part of me with this light that seemed to wash everything clean. My heart felt so open, so full. And I realized—gratitude brings more of itself. It’s a guide, in its own quiet way.
There were others in the room, each on their own journey. I didn’t know what they were experiencing, and it didn’t matter. There was this quiet understanding among all of us—that in some way, we were connected. Not just to each other, but to this Sacredness that’s so much greater than ourselves. Sacredness that is infinite, and yet, somehow, so close.
Even now, weeks later, that feeling of Gratitude lingers. I find myself returning to it, like a quiet experiment. I’ll chant Alhamdulillah at random moments throughout the day, just to see what unfolds. And each time, there’s this soft sense of being held—of being guided.
I think that’s what these Sema ceremonies are. They’re not just isolated moments of ecstasy. They’re points of reference, deep experiences I can return to in my everyday life. It’s not about chasing those high moments—it’s about weaving them into the mundane, the ordinary.
So, can I really describe the indescribable? I’m not sure. But maybe I don’t have to. Maybe it’s enough to catch glimpses of the Unseen, to sip from that wellspring of Light and Love, and to let it transform me. I hope I can keep meeting Life this way—at the edge of my Being, where every moment is an invitation to surrender, to listen, and to be transformed.