The Guest House

I've dedicated myself to feel and to live my Truths. The truth is that I cannot feel content all of the time. No one can. The truth is, I woke up this afternoon, after sleeping for twelve hours, and I felt sad. No, sad doesn't really cover it. I felt overwhelmed with grief, near hysteria. And I'm proud of myself because instead of burying these feelings or attempting to distract myself from them I lived the grief and the sorrow and I fucking cried. I cried inside and outside and I cried as I walked to the coffee shop and I cried as I flipped through The Essential Rumi. Of course the poem I opened up to was 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 it's 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.

-Rumi

So I invited the sorrow in even though I didn't really want it here. I welcomed it, I entertained it but I also wanted to know why. What do you want from me? I asked. I didn't like the answer I got....rest. "That's ridiculous," I told a friend. "What good does that do? I'm not doing enough! Rest, hah!" I like to argue with the answers I get. But if I'm not willing to listen why ask? So I will take some time and I'll rest. I'll reintegrate and get my footing in this place and in this time space. I'll pull back the reins on my soul work for a minute because my Self cried out for rest. I'm grateful that I was able to pay attention even if it took a few hours to really listen.