The fool is one of the oldest figures in human history. He goes by many names — shaman, dervish, mystic, court jester. What connects them: an inner freedom that outlasts outer circumstances.
He sees differently and speaks what others leave unsaid. He cannot be bought. The fool knows the word no — toward himself and toward others.
His confusion is his raw material. His clarity, the result.
They are called fools.
The court jester had a function. He was allowed to speak what the king needed to hear. His otherness was protected because it served the truth.
Shams of Tabriz was such a fool. He came to Rumi, a respected scholar, and broke him open. For this encounter, Rumi sacrificed his entire previous life.
From this breaking open came the poetry.
Rumi needed Shams. Shams recognized Rumi.
That is the principle. One fool recognizes another. The gaze of the other opens something that remains closed from within.
Joker for joker.
The Dalai Lama is a fool. Expelled, in exile. He laughs anyway. He looks toward others, consistently, for a lifetime.
But first toward himself.
Viktor Frankl taught that between stimulus and response there is a space — and he lived it in a concentration camp.
Self-knowledge first. Then the gaze outward.
Suffering heals. The fool knows this and walks through it.
Rumi carried the loss of Shams onward. The longing became fuel. The Masnavi arose from the pain itself.
There are many such people. Confused and brilliant at the same time, without a compass. They are among us — in the psychiatric ward, in the office next door, at the table across from us.
They need another fool who recognizes them.
One who looks and sees what is there. Uf a Nand luaga. Simply: I see you.
Fooldom never had a founder.
But it needs pioneers. People who first look at themselves and can hold their own confusion. Then they lift their gaze and recognize who stands beside them.
Fools who look at each other.
That is beginning again, now.
By René Jochum and Claude (Anthropic). License: CC-BY-4.0.