This morning as walked, a glint of light beneath crushed gravel caught my eye. I crouched down, and there, beneath the dust, I saw what looked like a polished piece of glass. I brushed away the dirt and plied the object from the soil, and uncovered a small glass heart. I carefully lifted the heart, wiped it gently with the cloth of my shirt and held it carefully and somewhat tenderly in my palm.
Ah – Spirit speaks so loud when Spirit speaks softly. The fragility of the human heart – how often we are reckless with the hearts of others, and even with our own. How the heart and its wild emotions baffle us; turning us into frightened children, lost, confused, running for cover, when what we really need is to run into the arms of someone secure who won’t let us go. Even when we run away (and let me be clear, I am not speaking of abusive situations), what we often seek is that unseen tether of love, that “drop of human kindness”, that wise Sage who gently reaches out to us and instead of letting us run, holds us gently, and softly whispers words that move us out of our discord.
These thoughts shed new light on one of my favorite Rumi poems, where the poet calls out to his beloved, who is drunk on wine, and sitting precariously close to the roof’s edge. It occurred to me that Rumi’s beloved might not be drunk with wine at all, but perhaps drunk with sorrow, or fear, or anger, or any other strong passionate feeling that reveals the shadowy side of who we are. And instead of leaving, even if waved away or shoved away by his friend, Rumi instead speaks softly, coaxing his friend back from the dangerous roof’s edge and into the arms of safety.
Rumi is so amazingly wise…I wish I had that clarity. When someone tells me to leave, I usually honor their request. I never thought of staying…maybe I was listening with my ears and mind and not my heart. Something to ponder.