This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. The guests Rumi refers to are moments of awareness, both joyous and sorrowful, that show up in our lives each day like unexpected visitors. Be grateful for whoever comes, he says at the poem's end, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond. There's just something peaceful and humane about navigating through the day like that. Tonight our home is literally a guest house because my sister-in-law and nephew are coming in on a late plane and will stay with us until morning. I've had the nicest time getting ready for them, making the house sparkle and adding some simple touches: a pumpkin and pale orange mums by the kitchen door . . . a tea I think Jane might like for breakfast and hoping we'll have time to linger over a cup . . . peanut butter kiss cookies for Stewart . . . thick towels, crisp linens, a gingery candle. It feels welcoming and cozy. Like a guest house should.
When is the last time you found a personal note peeking out of your mailbox? From someone who gathered paper, pen or laptop (and thoughts) and focused solely on dear, wonderful you? Well, there will always be correspondence to open here. Love letters from life, written just for you.