As
I have “slowly come back to this life from the other more secret,
moveable, and frighteningly honest world where everything began,” (David
Whyte) I awoke one morning to go looking for a book on my bookshelf (The Brain that Changes Itself) and was not able to find it. Instead, I found a book of poetry by Rumi, a 13th
century Persian poet and Sufi mystic. In the book I found a 3x5 file
card on which I had written the following words: “I intend to be here
and nowhere else. To make no one wrong. To be a blessing & a joy. To
learn & embody the consciousness of Nonviolent Communication.”
This
card was tucked into page 36 where Rumi had written one of my favorite
stanzas: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a
field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the
world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.” Wow. That alone was enough to speak about the
journey I have been travelling since my first seizure on August 30.
But
then I decided to go one step further. I randomly opened the book to a
page, thinking that the poem on that page perhaps had a message for me.
Given how many times I nearly died, with my heart stopping multiple
times (once for 24 seconds), and given how many seizures I have had over
the past two months (too many to count), the poem that I found on page
136 was profound beyond words. I would like to share it with you now,
giving full credit to Megan and her love for bringing me back to life.
Blessings.
Sublime Generosity
I was dead, then alive.
Weeping, then laughing.
The power of love came into me,
and I became fierce like a lion,
then tender like the evening star.
He said, “You’re not mad enough.
You don’t belong in this house.”
I went wild and had to be tied up.
He said, “Still not wild enough
to stay with us!”
I broke through another layer
into joyfulness.
He said, “It’s not enough.”
I died.
He said, “You’re a clever little man,
full of fantasy and doubting.”
I plucked out my feather and became a fool
He said, “Now you’re the candle
for this assembly.”
But I’m no candle. Look!
I’m scattered smoke.
He said, “You are the sheikh, the guide.”
But I’m not the teacher. I have no power.
He said, “You already have wings.
I cannot give you wings.
But I wanted his wings.
I felt like some flightless chicken.
Then new events said to me,
“Don’t move. A sublime generosity is
coming toward you.”
And old love said, “Stay with me.”
I said, “I will.”
You are the fountain of the sun’s light.
I am a willow shadow on the ground.
You make my raggedness silky.
The soul at dawn is like darkened water
That slowly begins to say Thank you, thank you.
Then at sunset, again, Venus gradually
changes into the moon and then the whole nightsky.
This comes of smiling back
at your smile.
The chess master says nothing,
other than moving the silent chess piece.
That I am part of the ploys
of this game makes me
amazingly happy.
-Bob
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