There are times when I want nothing more than to be able to write. There are times too when every condition conducive to writing seems met. The circumstances all allow it, all distractions are absent, and my mind seems ready, willing and able for the thoughts to come. But even so, despite this, somehow the words don’t always come so easily.
Like a child refusing to eat their greens, the words need tempting, teasing out with the promise of “there’ll be custard for dessert if you do!”. Stubborn, frightened, like a cat stuck up a tree refusing to risk one of its nine lives in making the leap of faith down, I have to grab my ladder and make the climb upwards to fetch the words and carry them gently down to terra firma. Or sometimes hidden, somewhere deep under the surface, they need a sharp hook to pull them, gasping, struggling, fighting, like fresh fish caught unsuspecting in murky waters. What bait can I cast off with, a fisherman of words, to tempt my thoughts to take bite and allow them to be raised to the surface, glistening magnificently like the prize catch of the day?
In the absence of a truly tasty morsel I sometimes feel I have only the most meagre of things to throw into the still waters of my mind – a miserable maggot of an idea – and that is, the fact that I am finding it hard to write. For in doing so it often happens that something takes bite that I would never suspect would catch on – I fish for a Trout and catch a Koi Carp.
Other days however, like today, there is nothing I want to do less than write. The conditions just aren’t right at all. I’m tired. I’m miserable. My head hurts. That third vodka and tonic drunk to chase down half a bottle of wine last night really wasn’t a good idea and my jittery, shaking hands are firm proof that I really can’t ‘hold my drink’. And as for the two year old loudly throwing a tantrum next door because he “only wants yellow food to eat”, well, don’t get me started. But yet, despite all this, somehow I find making myself a cup of tea, reaching for a packet of Garibaldi, and nestling down on a bed strewn with an excessive amount of scatter cushions to do just that – to write.
Why, I wonder, is it so much easier to write when I have no intention of doing so? Why can I find the words when I’m not even vaguely looking for them? Do the same principles apply as when looking for your missing car keys – when you’re looking you can’t see them, but when you stop they’re right there under your nose? Possibly. Maybe.
In any case today it was the words that found me. I was the fish that took the bait, not the one casting off from the shoreline. And that bait came to me in the form of a poem sent to me by someone important to me. I wonder if you will take bite too on reading....
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 are 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 whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Jelaluddin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks
When I wrote my last blog post, two months ago today, I was in the processing of finding a new home. And if my memory serves me correctly I was, in fact, that weekend staying at a friend’s house as a guest. I needed somewhere to stay and they welcomed me in – a house guest shown nothing but the most generous hospitality, met at the door with a smile like Rumi’s unexpected visitor. Now, two months on, and I am sitting writing this post in a brand new home and have turned to a whole new page in my own guestbook – a new chapter giving rise to new sets of visitors and new unfamiliar feelings.
Rumi’s poem illustrates beautifully, I think, that we never know in life what feelings may check-in with us on a day to day basis, leaving a mark in our guestbook. Feelings drift in and out, changing weekly, daily, hourly even. Some bring heavy luggage, some nothing more than the clothes they arrive in. Some keep themselves locked up quietly in their rooms, hardly letting us know they are there, whilst others may make continual demands for attention and service. And whilst some may be only fleeting guests, with us for a weekend break or an overnight stop, others settle in for a long term visit. Rumi encourages us to accept them all – good and bad – and to treat them equally as welcome guests. They are all a blessing in their own unique way.
Equally, I think, we should accept the very different kinds of callers who pay us a visit in our lives. As in Rumi’s guest-house, you never know who, when and how people will arrive in your life. You may not always know where they came from, how they got here and why it’s you they have decided to pay a visit. Sometimes the visit is welcome, filled with gifts and thankyou’s, warming our homes and lightening our hearts. Other times we wish they had chosen another doorbell to ring, leaving nothing behind them but muddy footprints in the hallway. Some guests outstay their welcome with no sense of propriety or respect. Others leave far too soon with a farewell which feels insufficient, leaving our home feeling all too empty.
It is easier perhaps to control who which visitors we invite into the guest-house of our lives than to control the feelings which flit in and out unannounced. It’s simpler to create a boundary with a lockable door and spy-hole than with freely swinging saloon doors after-all. And it is, arguably, easier to ask a person to leave when they have outstayed their welcome, than a feeling which lives by an entirely different set of rules and etiquette, often with no regard for our convenience or comfort . But in either case, whether it be feelings or guests to our lives, Rumi’s stance of granting hospitality to all kinds of visitors would seem to me to be a good one.
Yes, of course there is an argument to be made for establishing a firm set of ‘house rules’ that we will not let ourselves or our house guests contravene. We ought to, to be sensible, make provisions for some kind of security, a lock on the door to be used in times of danger. And, of course, we must exercise some degree of control to maintain our homes in good condition, not allowing them to be trampled by ourselves, others nor to fall into disrepair. But is it not, I think, still good to remain open and welcoming, to invite in all kinds of guests without fear, and to have faith that all are to be considered a blessing?
A new home, with a new guestbook, and a new space for writing in the messages of unexpected guests. I know I plan to set up my home with a “Welcome” mat outside my front door and a set of fresh towels ready and waiting in the guest room. I wonder though, will I find the same should I call upon you?
