unknown poem

How much of the journey do we control

and how much controls us?

Are we the weavers of our own web

or are we woven into the quilt of the

Reality we live in?

Poetry by Rumi

(no art today ... just a lovely poem)

Out beyond ideas of 

wrong doing and right doing,

There is a field,

I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down

in that grass,

the world is too full

to talk about.

Ideas, language, even

the phrase 'each other'

doesn't make sense