The Art of a Loving Correspondence

We prayed together. We wept together. Sometimes we talked far beyond the hour allotted for the class; at other times, we were at a loss for words. Often the internet was down, blocked, or reception was so poor it was impossible to continue. From time to time, we heard the crowd shouting, and, always, we could feel its rage.

Still, we kept on writing. But not about the protests taking place in the streets of Tehran, Mashad, Isfahan, Shiraz and other cities. Revolution, as my students well knew, was not the way; real transformation took place at a deeper level — in the very soul of a nation, in the hearts of its citizens.

How could such transformation be brought about? It was a question to which ‘Abdu’l-Bahá had set down His answer in The Secret of Divine Civilization, a social treatise He wrote in the form of a letter to the people of Persia, in response to the intense debate taking place in Iran in the late 1800s about constitutional reform.

As warring factions — those for and those against the modernization of Persia — contended with one another, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá fleshed out His vision of “divine civilization,” a civilization with a mandate to “encourage the acquisition of useful arts” and to foster “whatsoever will further . . . the arts of living.”

The “arts of living” — it is a phrase whose meaning I have long pondered. What are the “arts of living”? I do not claim to fully understand what ‘Abdu’l-Bahá meant by the term, but I have come to think the phrase may be intended to highlight the fact that such arts do not exist in a domain of their own, but are completely intertwined with life itself.

Could the “arts of living,” the “useful arts” to which ‘Abdu’l-Bahá refers, simply be ways of living that are so refined, so beautiful they can be viewed as art? Could it be that one practices these arts when one engages in that which elevates daily living?

And could it be that the practice of letter writing itself, if undertaken in the spirit of love and for the good of the recipient — be it an individual, a community, a nation, or the peoples of the world — is one of the “arts of living”? Might, then, we view ‘Abdu’l-Bahá’s epistles and letters as the highest and best expression of such “arts of living”?

My own belief, that the very best literary art comes into being when a lofty vision of the human enterprise and highly refined literary skills intersect with “life” as we know it, live it, and experience it in the present moment, with all its joys and sorrows, is supported by various passages of Bahá’í scripture, a scripture, it is important to note, that consists primarily of soul-stirringly beautiful letters penned by the Manifestation and His interpreters in response to specific questions or concerns. Might we, then, view scripture itself as a divine art form embodying instructions on how to make art from life, how to draw poetry from living?

If a loving correspondence, a correspondence ignited by the spark of love and fueled by a deep sense of social purpose, is an art, then it is one ‘Abdu’l-Bahá practiced with great skill all His life, even during the years when the Holy Land was cut off from the rest of the world by war. Many of the letters He wrote during the years of the First World War could not be sent until the conflict ended, but when, at last, they were, those letters made it clear to their recipients that not for one moment had ‘Abdu’l-Bahá forgotten them.

Some of those letters have been published as Tablets of the Divine Plan, which has always been among my favorite works of Bahá’í scripture. It was one of these letters that sent me to China in 1986, and no doubt they were responsible for inspiring countless others to set out from their homes to share the Bahá’í teachings in distant lands.

When I ponder some of the art forms writers may employ in the future — the novel of pilgrimage, the essay of spiritual awakening, the poem of praise, plays that bring to life key episodes in Bábí and Bahá’í history — I can’t help but think that the letter, a form that offers enormous scope for the expression of the deepest yearnings of the soul, will hold its own.

A loving correspondence is pure poetry, and, likewise, poetry can constitute a loving correspondence. And so, in this issue, we share with you the loving correspondence of three talented debut poets: Heather Anne Hutchison, Victor Kulkosky, and Linette Kuy. I discovered Heather’s work on a cell phone I used to set the GPS for a road trip to Manitoulin Island in northern Ontario, and I learned about Victor’s and Linette’s work in a creative writing class I teach each year through the Wilmette Institute. These poems speak to you, dear reader, as a cherished friend and a beloved fellow traveler — about crisis and victory, love and loss, sickness and health, life and death, and about the life that has no end.

In our “Writing Life” column, we share poet Tami Haaland’s thoughts on the creative process. Tami has been at her art for a long time, teaching it and practicing it, and she has much wisdom to offer to all those who wish to dedicate themselves, as she has, to mastering the craft of poetry.

We offer a special feature in this issue: a collaborative art project generated when Ontario composer Margaret Henderson got together with New Hampshire artist Inger Gregory to create a setting for five poems from my chapbook The Beautiful Foolishness of Things, which was a finalist in the 2022 Poet’s Corner chapbook contest.

The poems had their origins in my fascination with the ways in which the ancient wisdom of China’s sages came together with Buddhist teachings and practice to give birth to the tea culture of China and Japan. One might think that such a subject is obscure, not relevant to the contemporary world and its pressing social issues, yet I can promise that if any one of us were to engage in the “practice” of tea drinking as it has been understood by the sages and elaborated in Buddhism, we would find something holy in the precious moments of our lives and in those with whom we have the bounty of sharing those moments.

In our essay section, we offer Victor Kulkosky’s poignant piece about loss — the loss of a spouse, a job, a family home, and, as a result of the onset of Parkinson’s, of health itself. In this section, we also share Bradford Miller’s remarkable story of a quilt that was designed in a dream and traveled the world.

We offer in our Personal Reflections section, musings by James Andrews on what to my mind is one of the most thought-provoking verses revealed by the Báb.

Speaking of a loving correspondence, we are delighted to be able to share “Dreaming of a Better Iran,” a letter written this past winter by eight students in my BIHE journalism class to their fellow Iranians.

In the translation section, we feature Bashir Sayyah’s beautiful rendering, in Farsi, of a poem I wrote for the students in that class during those difficult months when Iran was immersed in turmoil. I had never read one of my poems to my students before, but this time I did, on the last day of class, as a gesture of farewell. I had heard such suffering in their voices. I wanted to spur them on in the difficult journey ahead and remind them that we are with them all the way. I dedicate this poem to the Bahá’ís of Iran, who have endured so much for so long. We offer this poem only in Farsi, as a gift to the Iranian friends in their own language, and to highlight Bashir’s skillful translation.

In our “Voices of Iran” section, we share several “letters” from Iran to the world. In “Keeping the Eternal Garden,” Maryam Afzal and Saam Mozafari write of efforts to restore two Bahá’í graveyards, while in “Mrs. Mansouri’s Mission,” Sharzad Mohebbi writes of the courage of a teacher who persisted in offering Bahá’í children’s classes amidst the chaos of the recent protests in Iran. “Nothing but the Sanctity of the Desert” tells a heart-wrenching tale of the efforts of Nazgol Adyani and her family to give a beloved Bahá’í relative a dignified burial and “Five Days,” the riveting story of a senseless kidnapping endured by Bahar Rohani and her family.

We are pleased to offer another installment of Eira’s beloved comic, “Ruhi & Riaz,” one that captures the mood of Bahá’í youth in Iran in the wake of the brutal crushing of the recent uprising.

Two fascinating interviews enrich the pages of this issue of e*lix*ir: one by Nancy Lee Harper with Hooper Dunbar, whose paintings we also feature in our art section; and another by Mehrsa Mastoori, our arts correspondent in Iran, with santur player Erfan Hosseini. Mehrsa’s interview with Erfan is followed by a recording of Erfan singing an achingly beautiful poem about the pain of love as he plays an original composition on the santur.

As always, in our “Looking Back on Books” section, we include reviews of number of noteworthy books. Anton Floyd reviews a new book of poetry by Imelda Maguire, and I review a splendid compilation of Bahá’í Writings on music by Lorraine Hetu Manifold as well as Franz Wright’s Walking to Martha’s Vineyard, a book of poems written by a contemporary master of the metaphysical style.

I also take a look at Bradford Miller’s The Soul of the Maine House. Quite simply, this is the best and most important book of literary nonfiction by a Bahá’í writer that I have read thus far. I want to draw the attention of our readers to this remarkable book. Read it: you will not be disappointed.

Included in this issue, too, is a richly informed review by Allison Grover Khoury of books suitable for Bahá’í children, as offered in our annual “State of the Arts” section, as well as a review by Nancy Lee Harper of an important film created by Perry Productions: ‘Abdu’l-Bahá in France. Finally, we must thank photographer Ann Sheppard for the beautiful images that grace so many of the pages of this issue.

With issue # 16 of e*lix*ir, we mark the Twin Birthdays of the Báb and Bahá’u’lláh and send into the world a love letter, from our hearts to yours. The writers, artists, and the editors of this journal do what they do out of love — for the world, for our richly blessed community, for the reality of the soul that abides within each one of us and sometimes finds expression in the very divine “arts of living.”

— Sandra Lynn Hutchison