In vintage Ibn ‘Arabi style, the Andalusian mystic excavates fresh inner sights regarding fasting in the month of Ramadan. He states that while most people assume that the significance of the month is in the fasting, it is actually the feast of iftar (breaking of the fast) that is more important, due to what it symbolizes.
By depriving ourselves of food, drink and bodily pleasures during the daytime, we willingly undergo the experience of qabd (spiritual constriction), only to ascertain the inevitable flood of divine bast (expansion) by breaking of the fast at sunset, for as God promises: “Indeed, with(in) every difficulty is ease. Indeed, with(in) every difficulty is ease” (94:5).
Here, the etymological richness of iftar is paramount: fitra (primordial spiritual instinct) and Al-Fatir (name of God that means the Splitter). In other words, by sacralizing the ritual of iftar (breaking of the fast), we acknowledge our primordial human weakness and commemorate the Divine Creative Process, when God split apart the heavens and earth.
This, Ibn ‘Arabi emphasizes, is also part of the honor that God has bestowed upon human beings over the angels. While the latter do not eat, drink or reproduce, human beings are granted the grace to compete with the angels in this their rank during the daytime, but also willingly acknowledge their fragile humanity by returning to their basic human needs at night.
A third crucial symbolism in fasting is that it takes place during the daytime, which symbolizes the seen realm, alam al-shahada, while the complimentary feasting inaugurates nighttime, an emblem of alam al-ghayb (the unseen). In turn, the dance between abstinence and indulgence in Ramadan is an homage to fasting from form and feasting upon the spirit.
All of this delivers us to an important question regarding our existence and engagement in the world during this holiest of Islamic months. Many Muslims approach Ramadan as a ‘detox’ from the world. And yet, some of the greatest ‘worldly’ accomplishments of the early Muslim generations occurred during this month (e.g., Battle of Badr). To simply isolate oneself into the Word, away from the world, I believe, misses the mark regarding the reality of Ramadan that Ibn ‘Arabi wishes to convey above.
The Andalusian mystic tells us that the human being has a zahir (outward) and batin (inward) dimensions. In turn, each of these two aspects themselves also has an outward and inward mirror. This, Ibn ‘Arabi states, yields the following four layers of the human being, from most apparent to most hidden: zahir al-zahir (outward of the outward: bodily skin), batin al-zahir (inward of the outward: bodily organs hidden from the naked eye), zahir al-batin (outward of the inward: our morals and character) and batin al-batin (inward of the inward: our spirit and essence).
But like most Muslim – and non-Muslim – mystics and philosophers before and after him, Ibn ‘Arabi also regards the human being as a mirror for the universe at large, including all the existent things therein, as affirmed in the Islamic maxim: “The sickness is within you, as is the cure. You assume yourself to be something small, while the universe is enfolded within.” All of this provides us with the tools to revisit the notion of craft and its importance in Ramadan.
Like us, our craft, that most intimate expression of our soul and aptitudes, also has four layers. Its zahir al-zahir (outward of the outward) is only our physical engagement with the craft, the external work (e.g., film, play, painting, poem, dance, woodwork). Its batin al-zahir (inward of the outward) are the physical aspects that conceal themselves from the observer: the smell of pigment, the sound of wood, the ghost of previous drafts of a poem, novel or film.
Meanwhile, the zahir al-batin (outward of the inward) are those memories that narrate how a work of art came into being, otherwise known as the creative process. Lastly, batin al-batin (inward of the inward) is the spark of divine communication that ushered in the creative inspiration, a movement from the ineffable to tangible that agitated the artist to make connections where none seemed possible or exist.
In turn, especially for Muslim artists, to neglect one’s craft and calling during the month of Ramadan is to neglect one’s fitra, despite honoring the physical ritual of iftar. Al-Fatir had granted you the ability to draw, write, sing or direct; if you and I choose to neglect this calling, we are culling the divine gifts granted to our hearts, instead grafting the gift (‘poison’ in German) of ingratitude to our story, binding our perception to form and blinding ourselves from the spirit.
Ramadan should be a time for all Muslim artists to truly reform their approach to their craft: to redress their neglection of their calling and re-form their talent in a new dress. This is also the time to sunder any reliance upon oneself, the artist, as the source or even maker of art. Rather, as the Qur’anic verse instructs: “You have no hand in the affair” (3:128). Rather, one should be as Sir Michael Caine described Jack Lemmon’s first time acting in front of the camera.
Standing in front of the lens for the first time, after a long career in theater, Lemmon was not used to the camera’s inscription of every breath and gaze. The director kept asking: “Do less Jack!” Eventually, the actor proclaimed: “If I do any less, I’ll do nothing”, to which the director responded: “Now you’ve got it Jack!” Lemmon had to learn to fast from form and feast on reality of acting: that you are always witnessed and observed.
The Muslim artist reads the Qur’an in order to feast on new meanings that address every aspect of their journey to God. Each aya (verse) in scripture should translate itself into an aya (God’s sign) in one’s craft. It is in this creative act of translation that the artist’s true prowess comes to be, an ultimate act of Poiesis!
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