These days, just about anything will reduce me to tears. Different tears.

Today was a case in point.

I walked into a massive cobweb and cried in frustration as my inner Adrian Monk came stumbling out.

When my favourite village dogs ran to me on my walk I shed a few tears of happiness.

Hearing a workshop participant quote her mother’s advice reduced me to a sobbing mess (thankfully, it was a recording).

My emotions are all over the place. Sad. Happy. Afraid. Angry.

I’m menopausal.

We’re in the middle of a massive renovation that’s lasting years. Literally.

I’ve got to figure out how to run the lawnmower as himself is away.

The world is going to hell in a handbasket.

And while I was flopping around in the middle of all this up and down, the inimitable DR posted a poem by thirteenth-century Persian poet, Rumi. One that I’d not read before.

And it spoke volumes.

The Guest House by Jalaluddin Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

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.

Note: The extract in the featured image is from Jeff Brown’s Hearticulations.