Alternating my eyes, Kindle font at its largest, and the blurred dancing words read:
“A basket full of bread sits on your head but you beg for crusts from door to door. Up to your knees in the stream’s water and you seek a drink from this person and that. Would that you could know yourself for a time! Would that you could see a sign of your own beautiful face. … If you could only see your own beauty-for you are greater than the sun! Why are you withered and shriveled in this prison of dust? Why not become fresh from the gentleness of the heart’s spring? Why not laugh like a rose? Why not spread perfume?" ~Rumi
I will not write with the voice of “we.” I will ask only myself. I believe in the key. I believe in the keyhole etched to fit the key. I believe in the door knob that turns when the emptiness of the keyhole is filled with that which was carved out. I believe in the door. So why is it so hard to place hand upon knob and insert the key? I know so many other doors, their handles and doorknobs worn with the imprint of my palms. Is the act reserved only for others, the great, the inspired, the beautiful, learned and perhaps holy? Or is it the fear of the unknown, untested, and what if, that makes me distrustful of the uncertainty and blurriness? Leaving me to doubt the angel beckoning, ‘come through the door and believe.’
“Would that you could know yourself….. see a sign of your own beautiful face….Why not? Why not? Why not?” Three times he asks, three times I reply……………….