It was a bright spring morning. The kind of morning when the air is soothingly cool, the fragrance of blossoming flowers invigorate the spirit, and golden memories seem to dance about, mingling with the present; one lives them fleetingly again and again.

In my walk around the well-worn track of the prison grounds, I noticed the Imam on the side of cellblock 5 tending to a small garden; one that only a select group of convicts are allowed to cultivate. I approached him and gave him the greetings of peace, "Assalaamu alaikam."

He looked up from his work, smiled and returned my salutation, "Wa alaikam as salaam wa rahmatu lahi wa barakatu." [And upon you also be peace and the mercy and the blessings of Allah].

I had recently received a ''Dear John'' letter from a woman whom I had a close relationship with. In fact, I had imagined that she was in love with me and I with her. Her letter of rebuttal and rejection had contributed to many sleepless nights and to a general loss of appetite for food and other pursuits. Almost before I knew it, I asked the Imam about love.

For a brief moment it seemed as if he had not heard me. Or was, perhaps, even ignoring me. The imam was a lifer, and lifers are sometimes prone to strange attitudes and abrupt mood swings. This is, of course, understandable because of the silent unrelenting horror that the sentence of life places upon the shoulders of anyone. Yet suddenly the imam's gaze met mine, as through the cover of a cloud. I detected an almost imperceptible twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

Then he spoke to me [or perhaps to all humanity] in the intense even monologue of the well initiated: "It has occurred to me that Allah created the universe as a divine expression of His Love. I like to refer to this Divine Love as Supreme Love; or a Love Supreme because it cannot be surpassed or even approached in terms of magnitude, grandeur, diversity, purity or power. All other forms of love are but mere reflections [and in many cases] only cheap imitations of the Supreme, Divine Love of Allah the Creator. This Love Supreme encompasses and connects all love, and all creatures who love one another and gives their love actuality and expression."

The imam was momentarily silent as he concentrated on excavating a particularly rocky and weed-marked strip of ground with a small garden spade.

I wondered at the connection between disruption and cultivation. Was this process also a part of the rudiments of love? I explained to him in detail about my painful bout with love; about the overwhelming sense of rejection and betrayal when I, shut away in the gloom of my prison cell, had received the letter from my ex-love and, thus, found myself sequestered into still another kind of prison. A prison even more difficult to understand and to deal with.

The imam stood up straight. The small dagger like spade still in his right hand. A shadow of pain seemed to distort the lines of his face. I tried to imagine him as he must have looked when he entered prison 30 years earlier. A young disturbed man tossed into an even more troubling ocean of hopelessness and despair. Yet he stood before me now tall, noble, hopeful, and unbeaten. Just as I detected a terrible anguish in his eyes and in his face, there was also, incredibly, an unspeakable triumph and a surpassing victory.

He smiled the smile of the knowing and said, "Most of human love is centered in the mire of selfishness, conceit, and self promotion. Some of the most profound expressions of love are between siblings, parents and children and of course, men and women. Yet, most of these kinds of love are anchored in the human ego. They are, in reality, not true expressions of love at all. They are nothing but weak, sickly, superficial forms of love and this are why they often fail with the participants rendered hurt, angry, and disillusioned.

I think it is safe to say that if human beings make attempts to love without centering that love on the selfless love of Allah {The Sustainer} then they are merely pretending or acting at love. And like all pretensions, their love will eventually be exposed as a charade and a sham."

"Some of the first indicators of egotistical semi-love, is the inability to reach out and to realize the pain of the beloved because of a deeper concern with one's own delusions {which gratify the ego} than with reality of love."

"This can often be perceived in those instances when people love the fantasy of love more than the person whom they are supposedly in love with. In other words, they are more proficient at loving during those times when the person they allegedly love is not around to be a direct recipient of their love. This loving from afar is really no love at all, but merely a scenario of emotional self-promotion and delirium that has no connection with true love which is, as I mentioned before, deeply rooted in the love of Allah."

I stood there, my body frozen in the moment. Yet my mind seemed to be racing and spinning through dimensions, which had long been hampered, or blocked, or destroyed. My vision rested upon the face of the Imam. It was nearly noon and in the brilliant light I noticed a deep sadness in his face and in the set of his shoulders.

I took a step toward him. I don't know exactly why. Perhaps to embrace him, as I had seen others do, to demonstrate empathy and brotherly affection. But he turned a look of outrage on me that made me freeze in horror, and the arms with which I had sought to console him were as lifeless, broken appendages.

"Don't pity me." he said, "For I know love, and I have known love."

Then the Imam motioned me to join him as he retired to a small metal bench. Just beyond us and slightly to the right of the eastern wall, a flock of seagulls screamed as they circled in flight. Not surprisingly, most prisoners resented birds. Probably because with their enviable ability to take flight at will, they reminded us of how utterly trapped and secluded we were.

The Imam looked straight ahead. I could sense that he was struggling with a vast sweep of emotions. Perhaps he was undecided if he could {or should} trust me with this valuable piece of his life; this priceless memory that he had kept folded and hidden within him like a fine pearl that could be redeemed when necessary. Or like a lifesaving shelter, had sustained him and warmed him against cold and bitter winds.

Then he spoke in the same bewildered voice with which I had first approached him.

"Her name was Irene. I loved her even though I never kissed her physically, or touched her in any way. It seemed that we were so in tune with each other. So much a part of each other spiritually, and mystically, that we could convey our love and devotion without gestures or words.

It was all in the way that we looked at each other. Or in the sound of our voices when we laughed together at something of mutual amusement. My love for her was pure because it was not tainted with the stain of jealousy or selfish attachment. To allow someone to be who they are without placing unreasonable conditions or constraints is something very unique."

"Don't get me wrong, there were on numerous occasions when I was on the verge of telling her I loved her. Of telling her that I had never loved another woman the way I loved her. But each time, when I tried to put my feelings for her into words, I realized that the vehicle of human speech was much too inadequate. And besides, why bother. I knew that she felt the power and the earnestness of my love for her - just as I sensed her great affection for me. It was so real that it could be touched without being touched. And it screamed aloud every time we were in each other's presence, even though it was never communicated in our speech.'

The imam, again, retreated into silence. But it was the silence of the searcher and the lament of the seeker. I believe he was trying desperately to convey to me in words an experience of love, which was unexplainable. And as such, was sacred and unapproachable and inviolable.

"I guess," he said finally, ''our love was like a beautifully perfect painting, set on the canvas by a master artist. It stood on its on merit."

And on that note, he bid me peace, and I watched him as he made his way across the pockmarked prison yard until he disappeared in the yawning cavern of cellblock 9.

Steven Malik Shelton is a journalist and human rights advocate. He can be reached at smalikshelton19@aol.com

© August 2006 By Afromerica

Brother Steven Malik Shelton will be keeping the Black community updated on the most current Black experiences effecting our lives. Visit regularly for new information that could help you overcome and make the best of your everyday experiences.

To subscribe to Malik's column join the Afromerica email list to receive new information as it is updated. Or E-mail Shelton at: smalikshelton19@aol.com

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