Submitted by daniel.budd on Tue, 03/09/2010 - 4:29pm.
I used to be shy.
You made me sing.
I used to refuse things at table.
Now I shout for more wine.
In somber dignity, I used to sit
on my mat and pray.
Now children run through
and make faces at me. (J. Rumi, Coleman Barks, trans.)
Submitted by daniel.budd on Wed, 03/03/2010 - 12:36am.
Ok, thinking about Rumi and winter, I was reminded of this one:
My worst habit is I get so tired of winter
I become a torture to those I'm with.
I can relate. Perhaps you can, too. Rumi goes on to talk about how he gets all tangled and knotted up whenever he feels distant from his Beloved, from the Friend. I can relate there, also. But talk about hope for the hopeless - in the midst of this poem, he says this:
There is a secret medicine
given only to those who hurt so hard
they can't hope.
