but here, have yourself one last rumi until the alakazaam.

THE GUEST HOUSE

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’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be 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 whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

(Rumi)

(Rumi)

An alligator lifts its head and swallows
the ocean, then the ocean
floor becomes
a desert covering
the alligator in
sand drifts.
Changes do
happen.  I do not know how,
or what remains of what
has disappeared
into the absolute.
I hear so many stories
and explanations, but I keep quiet,
because I don’t know anything,
and because something i swallowed
in the ocean
has made me completely content
with ignorance.

(Rumi)

if you haven’t yet entered the giveaway, DO!

along with the song notes of partridges,
and crows.  Sometimes organization
and computation become absurd.

(Rumi)

WALNUTS

Philosophers have said that we love music
because it resembles the sphere-sounds

of union. We’ve been part of a harmony
before, so these moments of treble and bass

keep our remembering fresh.

. . .

The waterhole is deep. A thirsty man climbs
a walnut tree growing next to the pool

and drops walnuts one by one into
the beautiful place. He listens carefully

to the sound as they hit and watches
the bubbles. A more rational man gives advice,

“You’ll regret doing this. You’re so far
from the water that by the time you get down

to gather walnuts, the water will have
carried them away.” He replies, “I’m not

here for walnuts, I want the music
they make when they hit.”

~

You that come to birth and bring the mysteries,
your voice-thunder makes us very happy.

Roar, lion of the heart,
and tear me open!

(Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks)

I’m burning a smudge stick and bringing bags to Goodwill.  Clearing, bag by bag, everything.  EVERYTHING!  This space is being cleared out, too.  Renewed.  So until it is, or at least until I can’t stand it anymore (no pictures?!), I’ll be posting a Rumi poem every day to fill the space of my own silence.

AAAaaaAaaand, I want to do some giveaways to celebrate the impending new-ness.  I totally bombed on my first and last “giveaway,” because I promised things to everyone (isn’t that a metaphor!).  But this one will have only one winner.  And after I have re-earned your giveaway trust, we’ll have a few more in the “new” space.

MUSIC! The PRIZE will be a CD OR two or three, a collection of all of the songs suggested in the comments (if the numbers get out of control, I’ll just pick my favorites of the bunch). HOW TO ENTER: Leave a favorite song in the comments (1 entry).  Include a link to the youtube or alternative way for us to hear it (1 additional entry).   Link to this post via twitter or facebook (1 additional entry).  Be sure to include your email when you comment so I can notify the winner, who I will chose via the handy-dandy Cute Kid Pulls Numbers Out Of Hat Method (on September 1st)!

when i was little, i had this imaginary world i would go to before i fell asleep.  we lived in the trees of a thick forest, and there were bridges that stretched from one tree to another.  i miss that place.

shortcake, dimples, kiki, at the "real" lake

She was poorly behaved yesterday, at a bridal shower.  She did not want to sit and socialize.  She did not perform, smile, or give affection appropriately or on command.  And she screamed like a pterodactyl if she was not allowed to watch the hockey game (what?  whose kid is this?) being played in the adjacent ice arena.  Then, after a while in the hockey rink, she screamed when i wouldn’t let her climb all over the bleachers.  So, I took her outside to continue her screaming. 

I stood on the jogging trail while she threw a fit at my feet.  My eyes followed the too-perfect curve of the artificial lake, and i compared the identical rows of too-perfect rocks where the water met the too-perfect grass.  The windsurfers and canoers looked plastic.  Imperfect, sweaty people passed us by, most of them smiling at the tantrum-ing toddler.  Above it all, loomed the ugly power plant, which Shortcake noticed was making clouds. 

The screaming eventually became whimpering, and the whimpering eventually became silence.  I thought she was asleep on my shoulder when I heard her addressing the seagulls. 

“Duckies.  Not birdies?  I hold him.”

I set her down so she could pursue the flock.  She exaggerated a tiptoe, whispering “I’m just like you, birdie.  Come back!” 

She picked up white feathers, and after studying each one, held it up to the seagulls. 

“Here you are, birdies.”  The ugly creatures continued to evade her, but she followed them—north, then south, then north, again and again. 

“Here you are!  Here is your feather.”  Defeated every time, she would eventually wait for a gust of wind, hold the feather up to the sky, and let the wind take it.  And she would laugh. 

We missed the gift opening.  She did not finish her cupcake.

I’ve just done all of this, too: the tantrum, the whimpering, the silence.  There are changes afoot, and uneven currents in the air.  A dear friend has just blessed me with some red hawk medicine, with the reminder of the hawk’s sharp vision, its awareness of interconnectedness and the highest Intent, and its ability to see beyond what seems to be to what truly is.  Yes, I do believe it is just about time to feel that wind.

graphite pencil and watercolor on arches hot press paper; birthday gift for my dear friend

Quietness

Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You’re covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you’ve died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.

The speechless full moon
comes out now.

(Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks)

Surrounding the man-made lake, mirroring the vibration, the leaves tremble in the wind, and the clouds above them, and the stars above them.  I notice the pockets of space between swimmers.  I listen for pockets of space between sounds.  I consider the imperceptible space between molecules.  I breathe and feel the same stillness within me, despite the warring emotions and thoughts, despite the trembling atoms and all the chaotic processes that keep me blinking.  I laugh when suddenly the loud speakers begin to play “The Space Between.”

I think of meditation, of stillness, of how it remains among the chaos and the noise, this pervasive stillness, this infinite silence.  And then I think of the following song, because of the lyrics: “we are all notes in this eternal song / god plays his flute, we all dance along,” and its overall reference to meditation.  The dance and the stillness, all superimposed, it makes me feel crazy (CRAZY!), in a good way.

(This also embarrasses me to think about because dammit, now every time I think of Trevor Hall, I will think of the concert on Friday night.  The crowd was awful and really small, the music was wonderful, but I was so moved beyond reason that I offered Trevor a dread bead as he passed me in the hall on his way out.  I mean, what?  Why is that OK?  From my nappy dread to yours?  Because I feel the words you sing, and we have matching hair?  This is when maybe the ego could have stepped in and helped me save face?  But no.  It did not.  And Trevor looked at me, raised a finger dismissively, and said “one second…” and then did not come back.  And so now I am going to stop talking about Trevor Hall, for goodness’ sake.  Right after this blog post.)