Thoughts inspired by Rumi

Sorrow prepares you for joy by Jalaluddin Rumi

Sorrow prepares you for joy,

It violently sweeps everything out of your house,

so that new joy can find space to enter.

It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart,

so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place.

It pulls up the rotten roots,

so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow.

Whatever Sorrow shakes from your heart,

far better things will take their place.

Rumi writes that sorrow prepares you for joy.  It violently sweeps everything out of your house.

My problem is that I am a terrible housekeeper and along with not sweeping away the dust and mess, I feel I am also unable to rid my heart of sorrow.

I’ve been thinking recently about the fact I used to be a kinder person—non-judgmental and more accepting and, I am trying to figure out what became of that part of me.  When did I start to change?

I never was aware of space, although I was always aware of my boundaries.  I tried never to cross other people’s boundaries.  I always allowed intrusions into mine, usually unaware.  Now, I find I have put barriers around my space and perhaps am more protective of my boundaries, but have I, in order for my own protection, built walls separating me completely.  I draw lines where I never did before.  I spend more time marching and keeping a watchful eye out for intruders.  I have dug a moat around the castle of self.

Spring is here with its expansiveness of beauty with its new blooms of flowers and I think of that person 20 years ago who wrote of what she wanted in this poem:

Send Me Flowers Of All Different Hues To Highlight the Feelings by Alyss 

I want violets of passion,

Roses of nettle

Gladiolas of growth

Sweet peas of tenderness

Jasmine of fervor

Forget-me-nots of caring

Buttercups of sunshine and happy days

Will-o-the wisp of adventure

Orchids of yearning

Gardenias of fragility

Asters of foreboding strength

An umbel bouquet rendering love,

P.S.  But I might settle for daisies.

 Ode to Spring by Alyss

Sip the wine, toast the world, do a jig.

Spring has sprung

Its pollen is flying

Kerchoo, kerchoo, kerchoo

Random Thoughts

For the past three years, on Monday mornings I attend a writing group. We begin with a poem and then write for 40 minutes about anything. At times the poem might inspire us. Thereafter, we have the option to read and share what we have written or stay silent. This is not a critical writers' group. We leave the inner and outer critic outside of our group. I thought I would post some of my musing here with the disclaimer that these were written a few years ago, so my mood and feelings of today may be quite different.

The Heat of Midnight Tears by Mirabai

If we could reach the Lord through immersion in water

I would have asked to be born a fish in this life

If we could reach him through nothing but berries and wild nuts

Then surely the saints would have been monkeys when they came from eh womb?

If we could reach him by munching lettuce and dry leaves

Then the goats would surely get to the Holy One before us?

If the worship of stone statues could bring us all the way,

I would have adored a granite mountain years ago.

Mirabai says: The heat of midnight tears will bring you to God.

Does one think of a higher power only in the time of crisis and sadness? Is religion one of need only when we ourselves are needy?

I myself think only of a higher power or reach out to that unknown power when I am seeking all types of enlightenment--it is one of many as I transverse thru life.

Mostly, the association with that so called higher power is in mockery—“God Damn It?”, “Jesus Christ”, etc., but again mingled with many Fuck You’s, Shits, Assholes, Jesus H. Christ’s.

I do believe that that higher power rests within me and only I can answer the calls of my own distraught. A quiet inner voice—reassuring and supportive and, only at times, available to be called on.

I sometime dance to a different drummer. I move up the down staircase, enter when I should be exiting, and advance rather than retreat and vice verse. Yet, I don’t feel out of step. I feel on the edge.

Trying for a new perspective. Turning the world ever so slightly for a different view. Beyond the given dimension. Revising the written word, redefining the painting, altering the recipe—not to improve but to give a different vantage of taste, sound and look.

Reaching out and altering the axis.

Play an atonal sound. Off shore, create a cacophony, only to be able to relax afterwards.