Rumi -Written in the 15th Century

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 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

Transferred from an old blog - here were the responses:

jinksy said...: Is that where my laughter comes from?! Look out - you'll get sprayed!; September 23, 2009 at 11:11:00 AM CDT
Renee said...: Sydney, thank you for always caring about what is going on with me. And for loving Sheldon too.

Love Renee xoxo; September 25, 2009 at 9:49:00 PM CDT
Laurie said...: funny that I found this today, the day I need to read it.

Thank you!; October 7, 2009 at 1:27:00 PM CDT

Comments

This Poem, A Song

"Bones" by Libby Roderick I come from a long line of dead people I come from a tall pile of bones My people lie sleeping all under the world Their souls turn to roots, leaves and stones. My grandpa went by whiskey in an L.A. hotel His dad died of Ohio coal And before him, and before that, they slipped under the ground Fewer bones walk above than below. My great grandmother's eyes stare out from my face Her skinny bones dance around in my clothes You can almost hear the whisper of her sweet southern song In this voice I've been calling my own. A toast to the living, walk us walk down the aisle So these bones can be married to the flesh for awhile. A song, a song for the living, though the flesh worries when These bones will be leaving to join family again. I come from a long line of dead people I come from a tall pile of bones My people lie sleeping all under the world Their souls turn to roots, leaves and stones.

Excerpts from Notes from Paris: A Work in Progress, Part One

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Paris Was Burning

Yesterday was a BIG day. I finally opened an air-tight box which contained my few, most prized journals, wrapped in acid free paper, stored for over a decade. Ten years! I hadn't realized it had been that long. While there are many things of far greater monetary value, nothing compares to how precious these journals are to me. Their pages contain my raw experiences, captured in the moment, as I did the rare thing of living a long held dream -- a dream that ended up surpassing even my wildest hopes and imaginings: spending four weeks by myself in Paris, in an apartment I rented, just writing, reading, eating, observing, listening and walking at all hours, as I pleased. Twenty five years later, I decided to finally turn those journals into something polished - for myself at least, to publish at best. It was a bucket list item for me as a writer - but in that highest category of things you must do to leave this world without regret. In 2013 took them with me when I rented...

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