"Don't make yourself miserable
with what's to come
or not to come." --Rumi, A Year with Rumi (April 18)
A friend sent me one of those list-of-question memes that goes around the internet. You know the type: when did you get up this morning, what did you have for breakfast, when's the last time you cried, what scares you...
It was that last one -- what scares you -- that threw me. Now granted, when I got the list it was the day after my return from my retreat, and I was exhausted, all resistance down. But I was appalled at my response to this question, which began as a list and threatened to stretch into a paragraph.
Wouldn't you think, having spent a week in silent communion with the Holy, having been continually reassured as to the rightness of life as it is, that I would have released all those fears? Or at least, having released them, could carry that sense of release back into everyday life?
Ah, yes; that is the test, isn't it -- can we carry what we learn when we are away back into the reality that is our particular gift. Having learned what celestial beings we are, can we continue in that grace when the washing machine breaks down, the plane is delayed, the boss yells at us or the kids are sick. And -- more importantly -- when we can't, when the challenges run away with us or drag us back into emotion and terror, can we continue to love and forgive ourselves, to feel the encircling acceptance and peace of Divine love?
I'm working on it. And that's enough for now -- to be a work in progress is a good thing. I will continue -- especially now that I've recovered from my travels and have some of my equanimity back -- to release that which troubles me and love what is.
The Rumi poems from yesterday and today -- like the one above, from the day before -- have a little insight to offer:
It was that last one -- what scares you -- that threw me. Now granted, when I got the list it was the day after my return from my retreat, and I was exhausted, all resistance down. But I was appalled at my response to this question, which began as a list and threatened to stretch into a paragraph.
Wouldn't you think, having spent a week in silent communion with the Holy, having been continually reassured as to the rightness of life as it is, that I would have released all those fears? Or at least, having released them, could carry that sense of release back into everyday life?
Ah, yes; that is the test, isn't it -- can we carry what we learn when we are away back into the reality that is our particular gift. Having learned what celestial beings we are, can we continue in that grace when the washing machine breaks down, the plane is delayed, the boss yells at us or the kids are sick. And -- more importantly -- when we can't, when the challenges run away with us or drag us back into emotion and terror, can we continue to love and forgive ourselves, to feel the encircling acceptance and peace of Divine love?
I'm working on it. And that's enough for now -- to be a work in progress is a good thing. I will continue -- especially now that I've recovered from my travels and have some of my equanimity back -- to release that which troubles me and love what is.
The Rumi poems from yesterday and today -- like the one above, from the day before -- have a little insight to offer:
"When the Queen of Sheba came to Solomon,
she left behind her kingdom and her wealth,
the same way lovers leave their reputations
... but her filigreed throne
was her one attachment.
It was a large throne and difficult to transport,
because it could not be taken apart,
being as cunningly put together as the human body.
Solomon saw that her heart was open to him
and that the throne would soon be left behind.
Let her bring it, he said.
It will soon become a lesson to her.
She can look at that throne
and see how far she has come."
Yup. We all have our attachments, our fears and our stories. They may not be beautiful, or filigreed as thrones. But God says, "Let her bring it." Because these challenges we carry serve as a gentle reminder -- both of how far we have come, and of how far we still have to go. And it's all good.
she left behind her kingdom and her wealth,
the same way lovers leave their reputations
... but her filigreed throne
was her one attachment.
It was a large throne and difficult to transport,
because it could not be taken apart,
being as cunningly put together as the human body.
Solomon saw that her heart was open to him
and that the throne would soon be left behind.
Let her bring it, he said.
It will soon become a lesson to her.
She can look at that throne
and see how far she has come."
Yup. We all have our attachments, our fears and our stories. They may not be beautiful, or filigreed as thrones. But God says, "Let her bring it." Because these challenges we carry serve as a gentle reminder -- both of how far we have come, and of how far we still have to go. And it's all good.
2 comments:
That one really threw me too...especially when the one who sent it to me (one of your readers too, btw *s*) answered it with "aging alone." When I read that a sob took hold of my windpipe and I couldn't even begin to want to deal with that thought...so I pushed it away. And then when I went to answer that question for myself, I, too, had a long list...but I erased it. I laughed out loud when I read yours because you did what I didn't have the courage to do. Aw, gentle, loving, sometimes unkind but always instructive synchronicity...
So glad the reminders ARE gentle.
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