a welcoming

My heart, if you can't take the sorrow, go.

The streets are full of homeless lovers; go.

My soul, come now, if you are not afraid.

But if you fear, your work is not here: go.

#1548: From Rumi's Kolliyaat-e Shams-e Tabrizi

(The pedant in me can't help but notice translator Zara Houshmand's inconsistent punctuation here but a more laissez-faire attitude will leave it be.)

I've been making an effort to finish reading the book lent to me by the librarian at my local library: Rumi/Moyne/Barks in Say I Am You. A favourite piece beckoned me for attention this morning, like one of the very visitors it speaks of.

The Guest-House

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.

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

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Because I also want to honour my regular person-guest here, I chose a quatrain referring to love's sorrow, passion's pain. Just as I am true to Rumi every day, Bob is true to me. A fragile loyalty that could disappear any day, fade like a withered rose petal. All the more reason to welcome its precious fragrance now.