«إذا فكّرت كثيرًا في المفقود فقدت كثيرًا من الموجود؛ لأنّك انتقلت من عالم الاستمتاع بما في يديك إلى عالم التّفكير بما ليس لديك.. فاستمتع بما تملك».
كأنّ من أرسلها على هاتفي كان ساعتها جالساً على بوابة قلبي، يقلّب صفحاته.. ويدرك مكمن الأسى فيه، كأنّني ما سمعت بها من قبل..
كأنّها شيء جديد أُجرّب الصّعود في معارجه، وأذهب في مسالكه تدبّرًا وتأمّلًا واستقراءً بصيرًا..
كأنّها كانت بين يديّ فأزاحت اللحظة عنها غطاء الغفلة، فبانت لي «حكمة»، أيقظتني من شرود ومكابدة ونكد طويل مديد.
لا شيء فيها خارج عن سياق ما عبر أذني من جُفل المواعظ الملقاة بلا روح في دروب حياتي.. وأنت لا تدري لِمَ لَمْ تثبت المواعظ في قلبك إلّا قليلًا
رغم أنّ صوت زواجر الخطباء من خوادع الدنيا يطاردك أينما يمّمت، يخفت ويعلو، يشتدّ ويرتخي، تطيعه حينًا بدافع ندم عابر، لكن الحياة تناديك، والأمل فسيح، فيتوارى صوتهم، كأنّه لم يعبر بقلبك، كأنّهم لم يقولوا شيئًا، هل كان صوتهم من «لسان» لم يباشر بشاشة القلب فبقي في الآذان؟!
لكنك كعهدك تدخل على الخطيب بنصف منك غارق في زحام الحياة، ونصف يحاوره في «صمت ثرثار»، ينكر ويمالي.. فلا تخرج من مكرور الخُطب إلا بمزيد الحيرة والقلق..
والعمر يمضي.. والبروق خلّب، وكأنّ ما بين يديك هباء، وما أحرزته مطفف ميزان في مرآة العين وهي تقلّب طرفها يمينًا وشمالًا، تبحث عن «غائب» يسعدها، ومنتظر يسعدها، في سوح «زائل» لا محالة، فأيّ غفلة هذي؟!
وأنت ما تستطيع أن تكبح جماح ما يتلامع لك في أفق الخاطر بوصفًا «نعيمًا» لم تدركه واقعًا، فحصدته وهمًا بمنجل الأسف المتلاف، و«ممكنًا» فوّته بالغفلة فأورثك ندمًا ناحرًا.. قلق لا يحملك على استقرار، واضطراب يذهب بك كل مذهب في الحياة..
أوقفك ابن رومي حيث وقف، بكلّ حمولة الأسى التي مرّ بها في حياته، وأخذك العجب منه كلّ مأخذ، وأنت ترى صورته في نسج العميد طه حسين عنه بالقول
«نحن نعلم أنّه كان سيئ الحظ في حياته، ولم يكن محبّبًا إلى النّاس، وإنّما كان مبغضًا إليهم، وكان مُحسدًا أيضًا، ولم يكن أمره مقصورًا على سوء حظّه، بل ربّما كان سوء طبيعته، فقد كان حاد المزاج، مضطربه، معتلَّ الطّبع، ضعيف الأعصاب، حادَّ الحسِّ جدًّا، يكاد يبلغ من ذلك الإسراف».
وكأنّه من ذلك النول قد نسج لك خلاصة أمر «الدنيا»، وقدّمها لك واخزة ومبرقة:
طُبِعَت عَلى كدرٍ وَأَنتَ تُريدُها
صَفوًا مِنَ الأَقذاءِ وَالأَكدارِ
وَمُكَلِّفُ الأَيَّامِ ضِدَّ طِبَاعِهَا
مُتَطَلِّبٌ فِي المَاءِ جَذْوَةَ نَارِ
ألا ما أكثر ما طلبتُ «جذوة النّار» من مياه كثيرة مرّت على جسر حياتي، أحسّها «فرصًا» ضاعت، فيردني صوت الضمير الحي.
ليس ثمة فرص ضائعة، فما كان لما فاتك أن يصيبك، وما كان لما أصابك أن يخطئك، فتستقرّ نفسك لحظات، لكنّها تعود إلى فورانها في دوائر النّدم الماحق، والأسف الهالك، ويمرّ عليك الحكيم المتنبي ملوّحًا بذات تلويحة ابن الرومي، كأنّ ماء البئر نفسه، ولكن الدّلو مختلف:
صَحِبَ الناسُ قَبلَنا ذا الزَمانا
وَعَناهُم مِن شَأنِهِ ما عَنانا
وَتَوَلَّوا بِغُصَّةٍ كُلُّهُم مِنـهُ
وَإِن سَرَّ بَعضُهُم أَحيانا
رُبَّما تُحسِنُ الصَنيعَ لَياليـهِ
وَلَكِن تُكَدِّرُ الإِحسانا
هل بقي من العمر ما يكفي لطموح لم تبلغ غاياته، وحاجة من عاش لا تنقضي؟
هل ثمة زاجر يحبس صوت النّدم على ما فات، ويطمئن القلب بالرضا على ما احترز ونال، بقبول لا تشينه نوازع الموجدة على ما ضاع؟ هل عناك الطيب صالح، في روايته «ضو البيت / بندرشاه»، بالقول: كانت ساقاه تحسّان بوطأة السنين الخمسين أو الستين، ولكنّ خياله كان خيال طفل دون العاشرة.
اللّيل بهيم، وشجيرات السيّال الجاثمات كنسوة في مأتم، ولمع الأضواء الموهومة في تلك الحلكة، وصوت الحياة الضّعيف في كلّ ذلك العدم. وفجأة، ذلك النّداء، وسط الظلام
«يا محيميد»
نداء قريب منه، كحبل الوريد.
وقال محيميد: «نعم»
نداء واضح مألوف يقول له «يا محيميد تعال».
هشّ له وقال «نعم»، ولم يخطر له أنّ ذلك أمر مستحيل، فقد كان النّداء هو الظّلام أو البرق الذي يلمع في جوف الظّلام، ولم يكن له من بدٍّ إلا أن يسير وراءه يقتفي أثره.
نعم.. نعم؛ «لن يخرج المرء عن أرض له وسماء»، لن يكفّ القلب عن الطراد، لن تهدأ مروحة الندم، لن يسكت صوت الحسرة، والعمر مضى أو كاد.
ليت العبارة جاءت باكرًا، ليت القلب وعى أنه «إذا فكّرت كثيرًا في المفقود فقدت كثيرًا من الموجود؛ لأنّك انتقلت من عالم الاستمتاع بما في يديك إلى عالم التّفكير بما ليس لديك».
“If you think too much about what is lost, you will lose much of what is present; because you have moved from the world of enjoying what is in your hands to the world of thinking about what you do not have... So enjoy what you possess.”
It was as if the one who sent this to my phone was sitting at the gate of my heart, flipping through its pages... and realizing the source of sorrow within it, as if I had never heard it before...
As if it were something new that I was trying to ascend in its ranks, and I was wandering through its paths with contemplation and deep reflection...
As if it had been in my hands, but the moment lifted the veil of negligence from it, revealing to me a “wisdom” that awakened me from a long, wandering struggle and misery.
There is nothing in it outside the context of what has passed through my ears from the jarring sermons thrown without spirit in the paths of my life... and you do not know why the sermons did not settle in your heart except for a short while.
Although the voices of the preachers from the deceits of this world chase you wherever you turn, they fade and rise, intensify and relax; you obey them at times out of fleeting regret, but life calls you, and hope is vast, so their voices recede, as if they had never passed through your heart, as if they had said nothing. Was their voice from a “tongue” that did not engage with the screen of the heart, remaining only in the ears?!
But as you are accustomed, you enter upon the preacher with half of you immersed in the hustle of life, and half engaging with him in “loquacious silence,” denying and yielding... so you leave the repetitive sermons only with more confusion and anxiety...
And life goes on... and the storms are fierce, as if what is in your hands is dust, and what you have achieved is a cheating balance in the mirror of the eye as it turns its gaze right and left, searching for a “lost” that would make it happy, and a waiting that would please it, in the fields of “transience” without a doubt. What a negligence is this?!
And you cannot restrain the urge of what glimmers to you on the horizon of thought as a “bliss” you have not realized in reality, so you harvested it as an illusion with the sickle of regret, and “potential” that you missed due to negligence, leaving you with a painful regret... anxiety that does not allow you to settle, and turmoil that takes you in every direction in life...
Son of Rumi stopped you where he stood, with all the burdens of sorrow he went through in his life, and you were completely amazed by him, as you see his image woven by the eminent Taha Hussein about him in the saying:
“We know that he was unfortunate in his life, and he was not beloved by the people, but rather hated by them, and he was also envied, and his matter was not limited to his bad luck, but perhaps it was the bad nature; for he was of a sharp temperament, troubled, of ill nature, weak nerves, and very sensitive, almost to the point of excess.”
As if from that loom he has woven for you the essence of the “world,” and presented it to you, sharp and illuminating:
It is printed on bitterness while you want it
Clear of impurities and troubles
And the burden of days is against its nature
Demanding in the water a spark of fire
Oh, how often I sought “a spark of fire” from the many waters that passed over the bridge of my life, feeling them as “opportunities” that were lost, and the voice of the living conscience returns me.
There are no lost opportunities, for what was meant to miss you could not reach you, and what was meant to reach you could not miss you, so your soul settles for moments, but it returns to its boiling in the circles of destructive regret, and fatal sorrow, and the wise Al-Mutanabbi passes by you, waving the same wave of Son of Rumi, as if the water of the well itself, but the bucket is different:
People before us have accompanied this time
And they were concerned with its matters as we are
And they departed with a lump in their throats, all of them from it
And although some of them were pleased at times
Perhaps you do good deeds at its nights
But you disturb the goodness
Is there any time left in life sufficient for ambitions you have not reached, and needs of those who live that do not end?
Is there any admonition that restrains the voice of regret for what has passed, and reassures the heart with contentment for what has been preserved and gained, with acceptance that is not marred by the impulses of resentment for what has been lost? Is there any good in the words of the great writer, in his novel “The House of the Light / Bandershah,” saying: His legs felt the weight of fifty or sixty years, but his imagination was that of a child under ten.
The night is dark, and the bushes of the gnarled trees are like women in mourning, and the illusory lights shimmer in that darkness, and the weak voice of life in all that nothingness. And suddenly, that call, in the midst of the darkness:
“Oh, Mohimid”
A call close to him, like the vein of the artery.
And Mohimid said: “Yes”
A clear familiar call saying to him “Oh, Mohimid, come.”
He brightened at it and said “Yes,” not thinking that this was an impossible matter, for the call was either the darkness or the lightning that flashes in the depths of the darkness, and he had no choice but to follow it.
Yes... yes; “A person will not leave a land of his and a sky,” the heart will not cease its racing, the fan of regret will not calm down, the voice of sorrow will not be silenced, and life has passed or is about to.
I wish the phrase had come early, I wish the heart had realized that “if you think too much about what is lost, you will lose much of what is present; because you have moved from the world of enjoying what is in your hands to the world of thinking about what you do not have.”
