"This being human is a guesthouse.
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 (b.1207-d.1273)
I met Rumi a few weeks ago in a peaceful place. I was sprawled out on a bench by the water seeking comfort in verses. At moments, I struggled to hear his words. After all, even a shout hurled across centuries sometimes comes through as a whisper. But at other moments, his voice rang crystal clear, advice on living well that holds true after nearly a millenium.
And I whispered questions to him because I want to know how he got to be so wise. But it seems that this sort of communication works in only one direction--forward. I slip a quick thank you back into the centuries anyway, just in case Rumi is listening for it.
And I contemplate the small pieces of work I've done in this life and I wonder what I will someday leave behind--or rather, what I will leave in front of me. Because I want what I suppose every writer wants: words that echo through centuries, words that hang on lips and tongues and at the tips of pens for generations to come.
And though everything else might change--the place, the language and the names, the technology and the way we communicate, there is still so much truth and solace to be found in the written word. Though our tragedies will become jokes and our names will be forgotten, may our words live on forever and may you know that you are not alone when the shame and malice come to call you on you, as they inevitably will. I have been there and so has Rumi.
If you listen carefully, we'll tell you all about it.
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