Monday, December 1, 2008

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