“Every morning a new arrival” (Rumi)

I’d had my swim, had watered the greenhouse, and was headed to the workshop for a bucket. I turned and saw the kitchen window, the front door. Last night someone knocked. I was in bed reading but John was downstairs and went to the door. It was a woman, long forgotten, who’d borrowed a book 12 years ago. She was passing and thought to return it. This morning I wondered how she’d remembered how to find us.

I was headed to the workshop for a bucket. I was heavy with the sadness I’ve carried since the spring. I turned and saw the front door.

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’re a crowd of sorrows…

The wind-chime my grandsons and I made of shells they gathered at Francis Point was turning in a slight breeze. Earlier I’d seen a frog in the plants on the plank of wild-edged cedar. At the lake more than a dozen young ravens flew from the trees while I was swimming on my back, wondering about the future. So much could happen, and might, or won’t. The ravens were yelping, one was lagging far behind, and somewhere along the shore, though I couldn’t see them, geese were squabbling. I’ve raised a family, planted trees, written books. In deep water, the light caught the shape of logs at the very bottom of the lake, heavy with their own history. This morning, headed to the workshop for a bucket, I turned and saw my kitchen window. No one was on the other side.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes…

Note: the lines of poetry are Rumi’s, from “The Guest House”,  translated by Coleman Barks.