The Music We Are

It has been a long winter! Dreadfully long... Perhaps longer for some than others based on geographical location, a need to work in the garden, and attitude toward the colder temperatures. As for my attitude, you may have already noticed that it is not always what it should be when deprived of my friend Mr. Sun. It probably doesn't help that I spend the winter season reading travel stories about warm, sunny locations and perusing gardening catalogs.

Recently, I had such an overwhelming need to feel the sun on my skin that I found myself hopping a plane to a sunnier...and warmer location. A visit with my girlfriend in a neighboring state that is known for its warmer climate seemed to be in order. And warm it was, 75 degrees and sunny nearly every day of the week I was there. Glory! I took full advantage of the weather doing little other than soaking it up while doing some reading and some writing. I may have already indicated this... but it was yes, Glorious with a capital G!

The trip was overall a lesson in simplicity. Lots of sun, good food shared with a good friend, long walks with some enthusiastic dogs and a plethora of laughter. Another highlight was a rather spontaneous stroll through a garden center. If I wasn't already lusting for Spring, I am now. To see the tiny faces of the pansies smiling up at me, and to smell the fresh herbs in their shiny little pots endowed me with numerous benefits that are now anchored deep within my soul.

The day after I returned we were blessed with the first day of Spring, and I was introduced to a beautiful poem. I share it with you in the hopes that Spring, and all the wonders that it brings, will touch your soul.


The Music We Are

Did you hear that winter is over? The basil
and the carnations cannot control their

laughter. The nightingale, back from his
wandering, has been made singing master

over the birds. The trees reach out their
congratulations. The soul goes dancing

through the king's doorway. Anemones blush
because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the
courtroom, and several December thieves steal

away. Last year's miracles will soon be
forgotten. New creatures whirl in from non-

existence, galaxies scattered around their
feet. Have you met them? Do you hear the

bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle? A single
narcissus flower has been appointed Inspector

of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen: the
wind is pouring wine! Love used to hide

inside images: no more! The orchard hangs
out its lanterns. The dead come stumbling by

in shrouds. Nothing can stay bound or be
imprisoned. You say, "End this poem here,

and wait for what's next." I will. Poems
are rough notations for the music we are.

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from The Soul of Rumi translated by Coleman Barks