Returning to Rumi

Rumi’s writing, to me is like a middle-aged woman.



Able to witness, hold space and be there.

A whirling dervish of delight while dating, making love or walking the dog alone. Strong arms, shoulders and silence capable of holding anything and everything.

I need my women friends and I need my poets.

Few can inhabit bliss like a woman who has walked the earth for decades and who has mothered, nurtured and tended to wounds, babies, fevers, dreams and lovers.

Few can write like Rumi with words are playful, erotic, pleasing and deep.

They always bring me joy but it’s not why I need them or him. Many bring joy. Rumi brings peace.

Rumi is who I long for when I grieve and can’t find peace within.

It’s not that he guides me in a self-help way or tells me how to get by, over or through pain.

Not, it’s better.

Like Pema Chodron, he welcomes, honors and even celebrates longing, sorrow and the need for connection.

He’s not surprised or alarmed by anything human and invites me always to tune in to another deeper realm.

In hard times his words wait, like blanket, to warm my chilled soul when I end up in my own bed.

I let my heart rest in verses when it’s too heavy and pick it up only when he’s lightened it for me.

Like the other night.

His words are in volumes, poems, books and quotes we turn to before bed and during prayers.

Rumi mothers, preaches, teaches and reaches me.

This longing you express
is the return message.
The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.
Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.

Those are his words and they are the cup I needed to reach for and sip from.

I felt held by a stranger from another time who could hold a space I know exists but can’t yet feel or believe or inhabit.

At those times, which are these times, I am seeking, searching and questing.

And Rumi I find.

Rumi is a giver and a lover and shares the sacredness of life without promises of only ease. Complexity is cherished, honored and spoken of as honesty which I sometimes need to feed on.

I get to hear him love, long, search and be wise.

It makes me better as a friend, mother and spirit walking this earth at this time. I am comforted in the words he uses that are nothing like my own and which tickle this infantile skin with ancient timeless wisdom.

You Matter Mantras

  • Trauma sucks. You don't.
  • Write to express not to impress.
  • It's not trauma informed if it's not informed by trauma survivors.
  • Breathing isn't optional.

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