Friday Poetry Blogging: Rumi

Come, come, whoever you are
Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving,
Ours is not a caravan of despair.

Come, come, whoever you are,
Even though you've broken your vows
a thousand times
Come, yet again,
Come.

I learned this poem at least a decade ago, in the interfaith community I belonged to. We used to chant it, dancing in circles; I always heard it as a generous, gracious welcome to a ragtag religious gathering. It's much more than that. It says to me now, "You are not an alien. You are not unworthy. We all bear our wounds, our scars, our imperfections, our shame. Nothing can scare us. Come, we are with you."

I gave thanks, below, for "people of refuge," those friends who calm me and help me reconnect with my own essential wholeness and goodness, and with God. The only redemptive value that I have found in my own recent rough patch, is the will to become a safe resting place for others. I believe we are all called to that work; there is so much brokenness, and the only way to heal it is with openness, gentleness, acceptance, and love.

Let me caution you, though, please. Welcoming others starts with welcoming yourself. You cannot give, what you haven't learned to receive. If you offer love, in good faith, and can't give it, you risk re-traumatizing the people you've conditioned to be close to you. (I know this, painfully well.) Ground yourself, in God and the earth and your loving circles. Work from that generosity, not your own. Let trust build, with time.

All blessings.