THE GUEST HOUSE. ---- RUMI

 

The Guest House. 

by Rumi

 

This being human is a Guest House

Every morning a new arrival

 

A joy, a depression, a meanness

Some momentary awareness comes

As an unexpected visitor

 

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows

Who violently sweep your house

Empty of its furniture

Still, treat each guest honorably

He maybe clearing you out

For some new delight

 

The dark thought, the shame, the malice

Meet them at the door laughing and invite them in

 

Be grateful for whatever comes

Because each has been sent

As a guide from beyond

 

 

Covid and its destructive impact on society has everyone questioning everything.   Nothing fits; explanations unsatisfactory; sorrowful irreversible actions taken. impacting loved ones and the validity of continuation.    Until I read this powerful poem by a thirteen century Persian poet Rumi,  its force was strong enough to stop my nightly habit of  flipflopping on social media, live news broadcast, awaiting the next Sussex’s stumble, and researching vaccination efficacy,  to just close my eyes and dig deep into this very wisdom of life and my own conscience. 

 

We are balanced not necessary equally, by good and bad.  The scales do shift on life’s trajectory.  How it is welcomed is dependent upon upbringing, religious faith and the soul that captures that little body that took its first breath.   My journey has welcomed all of those stated by Rumi; at times I could not utter nor laugh, but it certainly gave way to cleaning out to new delights.

 

Many a times the anger, dark thoughts, surrounded my being, and in a split of a second, I could kill.  Grateful that it had guided me to understand, not the perpetrator, but my limitations and beyond.   

 

For I am only human, and Rumi of centuries old has shown, never close the door but welcome what comes and entertain them all.  Who knows when our limited time on earth will come, just as unaware of its impact as when we arrived.   But upon leaving, those that carry our blood, however small, knows the extent of love that was left and the imperfection of self.