“Pure quiet,” Rumi writes. My own soul is restless today, angry and torn. All of this is “you,” says Rumi, meaning me, us, soul, the One. Even this terrible tumbling.

He writes of a great healing presence. Call it Shams of Tabriz (his teacher and friend), call it God, call it the Heart. I long to take my hundred flaws to that river of being and be healed. I keep trying, and coming up wet and troubled.

When do we get torn asunder completely, so we can dissolve into pure quiet? This cacophony inside is hard to bear, like being in the midst of a loud party full of people and music you don’t like.

The healing presence is hiding inside, I know, and here with each breath, but when Life presses on me like a thumb crushing an ant, all I feel is my exoskeleton breaking, everything that has held me up shattering, my legs giving way under me, the old me being squeezed out. I don’t feel the life I’m about to become.

This post is based on the poem by Rumi for May 29 in A Year with Rumi translated by Coleman Barks. To read the poem you can visit: http://rumidays.blogspot.com/2010_05_29_archive.html