the guest house

Originally written September 19, 2025:

Tomorrow is my 43rd birthday, and like any good Jew in late September, I'm feeling a little melancholy. Like any good ex-English major in this state of mind, I am turning poetry:

The Guest House

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.

By Rumi, Translation by Coleman Barks

Trying to hold this is mind today. The guests in my house lately have been fear demons. They want assurances that I will live a long, healthy life, that my loved ones will be protected, that there is beautiful certainty after every struggle. They are raging and hungry because, of course, they can't have what they want.

When I try to be grateful for the fear demons, to see them as guides, I picture them as babies. Small, helpless parts of me that need to be cared for, attended to, celebrated even. They just want so badly to be here with the people they adore.

That desire, when I shift it from fear to love, is a beautiful lifeforce that can steady me.

Who is the guest in your house today? How is it guiding you?