Rumi antz for ruminants ...

As you may have noticed on the pillow's sidebar, I have added a permanent link to Rumi Days, the blog skippered by dear blog friend Ruth (see her main blog synch-ro-ni-zing), dedicated to daily excerpts from Coleman Barks's translations of Rumi (A Year With Rumi: Daily Readings, published by HarperOne, in the photo). Ruth deftly pairs the excerpts with images from her own exquisite collection of photographs (the photo in the sidebar is hers).

I know many of you are familiar with the 13th century Sufi mystic Jallaludin Rumi; in fact, he is now said to be the best-selling poet in America today. I, on the other hand, became aware of the Persian poet and philosopher only recently. Very recently. Yes, if "ignorance is bliss", then I can truly be said to be obeying Joseph Campbell's dictum "follow your bliss".

I think my first exposure to Rumi came a few short months ago when I started following Steven's always enriching blog, the golden fish, where the poet makes regular appearances, a perfect companion for the tender eye Steven gracefully brings to his poetic walks and rides through nature and the world of art. And a couple of weeks ago I began to read Ruth's daily dose of reverie from Rumi. I am delighted with the readings and wanted to share the experience and link with you here.

Some choice twigs and leaves from this tree that Ruth waters daily:

March 13th

Friends, we are traveling together.

Throw off your tiredness. Let me show you

one tiny spot of the beauty that cannot be spoken.

I am like an ant that has gotten into the granary,

ludicrously happy, and trying to lug out

a grain that is way too big.

Photo by Ruth Mowry

April 14th

One flake from the wall of a goldmine

does not give much idea

what it is like

when the sun shines in

and turns the air

and the workers golden

Coleman Barks

April 27th

One of the marvels of the world

is the sight of a soul sitting in prison

with the key in its hand.

Covered with dust,

with a cleansing waterfall an inch away.

A young man rolls from side to side,

though the bed is comfortable

and a pillow holds his head.

He has a living master, yet he wants more,

and there is more.

If a prisoner had not lived outside,

he would not detest the dungeon.

Desiring knows there is a satisfaction

beyond this. Straying maps the path.

A secret freedom opens

through a crevice you can barely see.

The awareness a wine drinker wants

cannot be tasted in wine, but that failure

brings his deep thirst closer.

Rumi from Library of Congress

There are so many others I could cite, but you can go see Rumi Days for more if you like. The image of the ant, 'ludicrously happy' as it tries to lug a grain that is too big, and the observation 'straying maps the path' have stayed in my mind since I first read them, richly capturing much of what I feel and find in my daily wanderings and wonderings. So I am grateful to Ruth and Steven's blogs for introducing me to Rumi. I am not sure how I failed to come across that trail earlier, but perhaps in life there are paths that go unnoticed until we are finally ready to explore them.

From Slate

So in the fond hope that I am, indeed, ready to stray down that path, ludicrously happy as I lug my grain, I will continue my ramblings with Rumi as guide. As one guide, that is. The truth is that there are others who also accompany me. I have lately come to think that I go through life with Rumi perched on one shoulder and Woody Allen on the other. Yes, the ecstatic eye whispering into one ear and the snickering spleen giggling into the other. But what does this mean to go through life with Rumi as one antenna and Woody as the other? Well, beside putting a fatal flaw in any notion of becoming a competitive cyclist, it gives me an odd sense of direction. It basically means I can feel enraptured by the intoxicating marvels I find in the garden of my life, but I am quick to laugh at my own comical interaction with them. I sneeze.

Hopefully by knowing how my peculiar internal navigation system is put together, it will be easier for you to bear with me. Yes, I still heed Mr. Campbell's call to "follow your bliss", but I know full well that I would not know what to do if I were ever to find bliss. Reverie, rapture, bliss ...  such lovely words, such enticing states of the eye and soul, but for how long? Eternity, presumably. Puh-leaze, I'm not sure I could do more than 10 minutes. I enjoy meditative cud-chewing as much as anyone, but end up biting my own tongue all too soon. Anguish I can do, nirvana I would find trying. And it would not be long before the pesky jester would be poking his finger into the ribs of the venerable shaman. Mystics may light my way, but the shadow I cast will inevitably be that of the clown. So be it. Maybe they are not all that incompatible. Perhaps I carry in me both the wistful dreamer Don Quijote, tilting and flailing at windmills, and his sceptical sidekick, Sancho Panza.

Don Quijote and Sancho Panza
by Pablo Picasso

So how to follow my bliss and maintain a healthy scepticism that does not fester into cynicism? How to strive for enlightenment without wandering into the vaporous mists of self-absorbed prattle or letting the jokester become too obnoxious? I really don't know, but I will have Rumi and Woody, Don Quijote and Sancho as my guides and fellow travellers. All I know is that for all its comical senselessness, I am so enjoying the journey and I would not give up any one of these companions.

And when it all must end, when the grim reaper comes to challenge me to a game of chess, as in Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal, I will probably try to convince him to make it checkers instead. Or hopscotch, so in a distracted moment I can sneak back into the granary for one more ludicrously overlarge grain.

The Seventh Seal