Rumi Days 8-10: More Fragments
Pale sunlight,
pale the wall.
Love moves away.
The light changes.
I need more grace
than I thought.
Me: I am a little bit frozen today. Sick, passing in and out of sleep all morning, waking to the strange half light of colorless sky. Yesterday things fell apart. I realize I am not someone who can expose herself safely, here, or elsewhere. Exposure wounds me. This is harder than I thought. Dealing with it once seemed okay, but the second time seems stale and rotten. There is a soreness to it. As though no redemption lives here, with me. Instead, I close my eyes and sleep. I tell my husband to get movies and tea and yogurt. I come down with a hideous cold. Dizzy, I dream of strange things: a dog without its front paws that my aunt won't let me keep, a cousin who gets pregnant and gives away the babies, the movie we watched last night. Days when I can't move, I spend my waking hours nervous about not getting things done. I don't like this about myself—life cannot be one big list of things to do.
Still, I dream about living in the woods, in the mountains, and wish the traffic outside would quiet. I am learning something about patience, something about acceptance, something about loving, and something about grace. Grace is a reprieve, a gift given, but perhaps we must be willing accept it, open to it. Patience and acceptance are practiced actions. Loving, remains illusive and yet fully present even if we are not aware.
I dream of a river that flows near the house where I stand in the yard and hang sheets on the line. Little sparrows dip and flutter. I dream of river stones that I find and skip. I dream of the shallow light of dusk, the smell of spring, birds, always birds. I dream of children, their blond heads and laughter.
(the Connecticut River, Southern Vermont)
pale the wall.
Love moves away.
The light changes.
I need more grace
than I thought.
Me: I am a little bit frozen today. Sick, passing in and out of sleep all morning, waking to the strange half light of colorless sky. Yesterday things fell apart. I realize I am not someone who can expose herself safely, here, or elsewhere. Exposure wounds me. This is harder than I thought. Dealing with it once seemed okay, but the second time seems stale and rotten. There is a soreness to it. As though no redemption lives here, with me. Instead, I close my eyes and sleep. I tell my husband to get movies and tea and yogurt. I come down with a hideous cold. Dizzy, I dream of strange things: a dog without its front paws that my aunt won't let me keep, a cousin who gets pregnant and gives away the babies, the movie we watched last night. Days when I can't move, I spend my waking hours nervous about not getting things done. I don't like this about myself—life cannot be one big list of things to do.
Still, I dream about living in the woods, in the mountains, and wish the traffic outside would quiet. I am learning something about patience, something about acceptance, something about loving, and something about grace. Grace is a reprieve, a gift given, but perhaps we must be willing accept it, open to it. Patience and acceptance are practiced actions. Loving, remains illusive and yet fully present even if we are not aware.
I dream of a river that flows near the house where I stand in the yard and hang sheets on the line. Little sparrows dip and flutter. I dream of river stones that I find and skip. I dream of the shallow light of dusk, the smell of spring, birds, always birds. I dream of children, their blond heads and laughter.
Comments