This is quite a thought-provoking poem (of course it is, Rumi wrote it!). A creative way to look at moods, feelings, circumstances – not necessarily the only way. It’s a good balancing idea for someone who was raised to resist negative emotions, give them no quarter, don’t let them take control.
I’m fascinated with the idea of treating every new mood, thought, happening, as a guest in the house of my life. You give your attention to a guest, interact with them, ask how you may serve them – but you, as the host, remain the master of the house. So you don’t let these guests take over your life, you simply pay attention to them, treat them with generosity and hospitality, until they inevitably go on their way again.
(What I’ve found is that trying to “resist” a negative thought or emotion is really an impossibility – if it’s here for you to notice, then it’s already a reality. Of course you can keep yourself from acting on this negative emotion, but trying to pretend that it isn’t there at all doesn’t make it go away – it might just sneak in your back door and take up residence in your basement, and one day you’ll wonder, what is that awful stink?)
Things like love, joy, wealth, health are desirable guests. Rage, depression, poverty, sickness – not so much. Welcoming these things as guests feels close to the idea of loving an enemy. You are welcome here, but there are house rules, healthy boundaries, that I as the host will require.
In the act of serving a difficult guest – seeking to meet their needs, sharing conversation with them – you may come to understand them better – why they are here, what they need to move on. In the act of serving a delightful guest – turning your attention towards them – you may gain even more delight, deeper memories that stay with you after the guest has gone.
Beneath the video I’m including the lyrics I made and then the English translation by Coleman Barks that I worked from.
Each human life’s a guest house, each day brings something new A joy or a depression might come and visit you A moment of awareness, a miserable mean streak Could end up unexpectedly walking up your street Welcome and serve them all
And if a crowd of sorrows violently sweeps through And empties you of everything, still this way is true Give honor to each guest who comes into your life They could be here to clear you out to hold a new delight Welcome and serve them all
Dark thought and shame and malice, arriving in their time Meet them each with laughter, invite them in with kindness Be grateful for whoever comes, for each and every one For each one has been sent as a guide from beyond Welcome and serve them all
Coleman Barks translation: 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.
“Against” is not necessarily a negative word. Nor is “close.” I was thinking about this when I jotted down the first verse of this song months ago. You can lean against someone for comfort or protection or just to feel cozy. You can sit close, draw close, in love; rather than close your mind or your heart or your door. The hard s or the soft s, the adjective/adverb or the verb – they all come from the same Latin root.
The prompt for week 48 of #songaweek2021 was “tell me everything.” When I sat down to write my song last week, I revisited that first verse idea and then looked up the prompt for development ideas. I wanted each verse to set up some sense of juxtaposition – things that feel at odds that actually aren’t in a true love relationship (which is not at all limited to romantic ones). So the prompt helped me write verse two.
As I was playing the first two verses the song felt a lot like a lullaby. The first verse felt reminiscent of late nights holding my second baby, who would wake up crying hard and long and simply would not be comforted. I ached for him to just relax into my arms, against the warm loving body of his mother, but he’d twist and fight until he wore himself out.
I can be that baby too, with the people closest to me. I don’t want to open up and share my pain and mess with you. I just want to blame you for it, pick a fight to use up some of this bad energy I’m feeling.
Verse two describes the kind of loving conversation I think crying babies like me most need – a listening ear and heart, a recognition that you can never completely understand but that you want to know me. “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity,” said Simone Weil.
The juxtaposition in the first lines of the last verse may feel harsh on the first listen. But we all know it’s true, in any and every relationship – and I think in the most deeply loving ones we find gentle honesty about it. The song ends with a reminder that morphs into a question that is also about paying attention.
Lean up right against me You don’t need to fight against me Come close, don’t close yourself away
Tell me everything You don’t need to speak a word I know, I’ll never understand
I am here for you Until I am gone away You know I’m not the only one Who loves you . . .
It was Thanksgiving last week, and I put off songwriting all week. The deadline to submit for #songaweek2021 is midnight Saturday. Around 4:30 Saturday I sat down to give it a shot. Nathan was nearby and wanted to collaborate so we tossed around a few ideas. Then I started strumming this song’s chord progression and spitting out nonsense words until I got to the title phrase of this song – “through the hourglass.”
At first it felt depressing to Nathan – everything falling through the hourglass, nothing to hold on to. To me the idea felt freeing – nothing in the past, including that moment right there that just whizzed past you – oh, and that one, and here comes – and goes – another one – nothing can define you or keep its hold on you.
We wanted to play with a “through the looking glass” allusion and Nathan was also struck by the idea that our actual lives are lived in the neck of the hourglass. Above and below us the glass is curved and it distorts our perceptions. So our last verse we played with the “wonderland” concept, lyrically and melodically. Which, the longer I live, rings so true. The passage of time just feels capricious and illogical. And I might as well enjoy the wild adventure of it – open my heart and my hands to give love a place to land for a while.
A disclaimer – because we were so close to the deadline and didn’t want to spend all evening on recording, I did a quick and rough phone recording only. Would have loved to add more instrumentation and vocal harmonies but ah well . . . time.
The way it was the way it is the way we wish that it could be The things we said the things we did the things that make our history
Let them fall through the hourglass
The plans and schemes the hopes and dreams The big ideas About everything The roads we took The ones we left The bitter ends And bright beginnings
Feel them flow through the hourglass
One two three four five six seven eight nine ten [6x]
So here we are In wonderland Where nothing ever stays Quite where you laid it But open hearts And open hands Are some of love’s Most favorite resting places
When I was ten, my family moved to Owatonna, Minnesota. We joined a Baptist church and my brother and I enrolled at the church’s private school, and that fall I began sixth grade seated behind a dark-haired boy named Sean, because his last name came before mine alphabetically. Although I never called Sean a close friend, those larger-than-life growing-up years he became to me like a sibling in a large family. We both, along with most of our classmates, remained together in that class until fourteen of us graduated from high school.
Sean was always making me laugh. First, because I’m easily amused, especially by the random and the strange, and second, because he was so genuinely funny – in a random and strange way. A little like living with a Far Side comic strip. There are two special words I will always associate with Sean. The first is jocularity because he would, now and then for no apparent reason, crow that word like a rooster, getting a verbal running start and then lifting off – “Joc-joc-joc-jocuLARity!!” And the second is gyrate, because he did, and was famous in the school for it (when teachers weren’t looking that is). Hands clasped behind head, hips swirling in decidedly un-Baptist fashion, easygoing grin lighting up his devilish good looks.
I say devilish good looks, and as Sean was famous for gyrations, I was famous for boy-craziness – but I never felt that way about Sean. He just felt like family I guess. In junior high he’d tie my shoelaces together or sneak up and steal the book I was reading; once or twice he pulled my chair away before I sat down. That’s the kind of ‘ship we had, and as we grew up the teasing smoothed out into a little private joke that he just inexplicably started one day and only targeted on me – a smiley face he named Mr. Chubbs. He would draw Mr. Chubbs on my paper or notebook or the chalkboard when I wasn’t looking. I would pretend to be terribly annoyed every time Mr. Chubbs mysteriously showed up.
After high school graduation we went to different colleges and mostly lost touch, but then five years later I married Nathan, who grew up in Owatonna too and whose mother happened to be close friends with Sean’s mother, and I discovered that in Sean’s life outside of school, Nathan and his brother and Sean and his brother had all grown up together as friends. So Sean came to our wedding, and made me a card, a delayed punchline of sorts – of course it was Mr. Chubbs.
Over the years after that I’d hear random bits about Sean from Nathan’s brother who stayed in touch with him – he was painting, and traveling the world, and he settled in South Korea as a teacher. When I joined Facebook I found him there and requested to be his friend, but got no response. I learned later that he had thirteen Facebook friends.
Last month Nathan’s mother said that Sean would be coming to Minnesota to visit in a few weeks. I was looking forward to a chance to reconnect with him.
And then he died, by suicide.
I knew Sean as fun, and funny, and popular and attractive. But for most – arguably all – of that time, he was a child. When I last saw him he was barely into his twenties. I never really knew him as an adult. My brain wants a reason for this tragedy, and imagines that the expectations and potentially soul-crushing nature of adulthood were ultimately too much for him. But I can’t, and need not, know. I treasure his memory and found peace in singing to him this week.
On my first day of sixth grade I was looking at the back of his head Alphabetically it was always me after him And all those years no one else would come between us I think he was an old soul, a lover of Pink Floyd and M*A*S*H “Jocularity” he’d shriek wildly out of the blue So many strange delightful moments passed between us
Sean, rest in peace Sean, rest in peace
We were never that close but we grew up together In a little class in a private school in a small town Fourteen children figuring things out between us The last time I saw him he gave me a smiley face And I’ve kept it safe, brought it every place I’ve called home And all these years nothing else has passed between us
Julia Bloom 