Penny Post #39: The Guest House

Wisdom from the 13th century.

There were many a morning when I arrived at work and ignored the poem that sat laminated and pretty above my desk. I logged onto my computer, silenced my phone, and all else faded far into the background. I got sucked into the void that is google sheets and trackers and unending tasks that I never saw the poem again until my last day at the job. I was packing up my things - the stale granola bars that I never ate, the emergency bandaids for the inevitable blister - and finally looked up to find Rumi’s precocious “The Guest House” above my now empty desk. 

It read: 

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.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Unexpected visitors have found their way into my guest house - the one I was sure was boarded up and locked tight - and made themselves at home. It doesn’t matter that I would have denied them entrance; they barreled past me and “violently swe[pt]” everything inside. Little did I know that all of the locks in the world would not stop these guests.

So I vacuumed and I laundered and I sprayed surfaces to try and keep my guest house in order. I pretended as if my guests were not there at all which became harder and harder as more of them arrived.

Suddenly my house was filled with enough guests that there was no longer room for me. I stood outside, fighting the urge to set it all aflame, tormented by all of those I never wanted to let in.

I looked in on my guest house and saw all of my uninvited guests mingle, sip on my aged red wine, and goad me from within. Enough was enough, so I barreled in as they once did and forced them into dark corners where the shadows would keep them hidden. Yet they kept me up at night with mysterious sounds and the whites of their eyes in the darkness.

Enough was enough once again so I let them emerge from their shadows. They told me their stories and answered my questions, yet my curiosity extended only as far as the door where they vanished from sight.

Eventually there were no more guests in my guest house except one: me. In the turmoil of the revolving door of guests, I had made myself into one too. And, bafflingly, I found myself lonely. I missed their mysterious noises and the whites of their eyes in the dark. I also missed their stories and their company. I found myself wondering if they might visit again soon. Sitting in my newfound discomfort, I was surprised when I heard the doorbell ring.

Strange, I thought. I never knew that I had a doorbell.

Across the threshold stood another guest, one that looked quite unfamiliar. She walked in with my invitation, took a seat at the kitchen table, and offered her name: “Hope”.

I had a feeling she might stay awhile.

---

There were many a morning when I arrived at work and ignored the poem that sat laminated and pretty above my desk. This particular morning, on my last day, there was no ignoring Rumi’s searing wisdom. I’d entertained many a guest - shooed them away and offered them tea - only to realize that I was just a guest in this house and was needed back home.

Until next time,

Kiera