[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. This third stanza of Rumi’s poem might leave us with a bit of a question. There are young, tender things in us, things that need protecting from such “violence”. How do we both honor the guests that show up day by day, and then *also* the deeper parts of our souls that we have already learned need some extra care? Perhaps we are able to be present to the more threatening emotions and experiences as guests, only when we are sure our inner fledgling guests are being protected and cared for elsewhere (perhaps in the “family” side of the guest house). How might you let God care for those vulnerable parts of you, while you bravely meet such visitors as Rumi describes here? How might a “crowd of sorrows” be making space for something new in you? How might you honor the sorrow and its pain, while still honoring the beauty and young joy?

Posted by Jamie Bonilla at 2021-01-13 14:47:51 UTC