Just as the quietest spot in a tornado is its centre, so is mine.
Everyday I access that peaceful place for a little while as the world and all my emotions whirl around me at a ferocious pace. This is where there is no ache of being two, no grappling with the inadequacy of words, no helplessness. Just love.
As Rumi would say, that despite being hit by the tip of the love arrow, I the martyr am grateful to the hunter, The Almighty. He is the earthen bowl, the potter, the wet clay, the buyer and He is also the one to break the bowl.
Don’t grieve. Everything you lose comes round
in another form.
The child weaned from mother’s milk
now drinks wine and honey mixed.
God’s love flows from unmarked box
to unmarked box….
On the day I die, don’t say she’s gone, he’s gone.
Death has nothing to do with going away.
The sun sets and the moon sets,
but they’re not gone. Death is a coming together.
The human seed goes down into the ground
like a bucket,
and comes up with some unimagined beauty.
Your mouth closes here,
and immediately opens with a shout of joy there!
One of Rumi’s great teachings is that celebrating our pain and loss leads ultimately to joy. It’s difficult for us to grasp the idea that whatever we most resist and fear, whatever seemingly unbearable pain we must face, is actually our doorway to freedom and happiness.
Rumi teaches us that even the prospect of the reality of death can inspire courage and serenity. He says:
Take care dear Visitor.
Look for the glints of treasure in the dirt.
Blessings to you on this day!