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!
Rumi, The Guest House
A walk in the garden, spying on sparrow with its inspiring rhapsody and the robins’ intrepid darting.
A melancholy, another visitor today along with the towhee, woodpecker and junco. Wisteria evokes wonder, mist holds me as I move inside to dwell on the business and tenderness.
Lots to get done today. I needed this dropping-in with words. Already pages full in my journal. The words soothe, like the birds.
Compassion lives here, in the telling, and retelling. Words have ears that allow a woman to share her story and know it all at once, as one. A woman who knows that the story told is already changed, and in the next moment, would be told another way again. The telling, the sharing and the caring are important here. The listening, and the making space for all of it.
Am I not the strong and brave leader they expect? Only with these words, and the birds as my refuge and protection.
Here I am more than a brave woman giving strength to those in need of joy and creative enduring. Here I am also the tender young shoot, eager for emergence and the seed still sprouting, curious for its new unfolding. Here I am the enfolding earth beneath and all around, the hungry worm and the tent caterpillar surrounded by sister and brother crawlers. Here I am the cheet, cheet of the one who sings out and the branch on which it clings to stable.
Here the story expands, all the keys have their sacred gates to open. Here I am hummingbird nestled in the palm of a great pulsing, throbbing heart. Here I am swallows nesting, finding home in the mud and grass, cradled within the great wooden gate of open sky.
Feeling, feeling with. Being compassion. Keeping love alive.