I posted this poem before, on the old blog, a long time ago. And I rediscovered it while sifting through an old jot book, one given to me by a fellow eccentric very nearly a year ago.

I loved the poem from the first time I found it, but rediscovering it made me love it all the more. This is what I love about literature: everytime you read something a second or third time, it is read in a completely new way because you, the reader, have changed the way you read everything (even in subtle shifts). I find Rumi’s poetry really astounds me everytime I turn to it anew.

This year was so disruptive and there were so many jarring breaks and snaps in the flow of it. But every painful experience, like any good tragedy (or comedy!), brings emotions out, spews them and purges them (hopefully), and makes room for something else that would have been squeezed out otherwise.

I find it funny that, as life settled back into something akin to a living, a routine, I did find a new delight, a kindred spirit and heart, to fill spaces I didn’t know were empty until he came along.

And the poem says it all, said it all before I came to know it myself:

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,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

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