When I was young, our family lived in a small village called Savant Lake located five hours northwest of Thunder Bay. Every now and then, we would visit Red Lake, a town which was five hours further northwest from us. While there, we would stay at “the guest house”. The guest house, as I remember it, was a place that was bigger than today’s bed and breakfasts but smaller than a motel. It had rooms where we could stay and have breakfast in the morning. Maggie, the proprietor, would be there to welcome us all prim and proper. She would bustle and fuss about with an apron tied neatly and snugly around her trim waist, her shoulders slightly hunched forward. It was meant to be a home away from our home.
Decades later, I was introduced to a poem by Rumi entitled “The Guest House”. In the poem, Rumi suggests that we in our humanity are guest houses with “guests” in the shape and size of various and sometimes unwelcome emotions coming to call on us. Rumi goes on to say that we should fling wide the doors of our souls to these guests as they can bring unexpected surprise to our lives.
Often when travelling, anxiety starts knocking at the door of my guest house. My inclination is certainly not to fling open the door with a fuss and a bustle to welcome it inside. If anything, I’m inclined to batten down the hatches as it were, to keep it outside. This usually results in a frantic knocking at the back door and the ground floor windows.
When we settled into our “guest house” in the Alps above Mittersill, Austria, Anxiety’s scrappy little sister was hammering at my door. What a distraction when all I wanted to do was savour the experiences and have fun! The next few days of a slower pace and soaking in the beauty of the mountains brought some calm and settledness. That big full moon shining in on us as we slept (under the down-filled duvet that was folded vertically in thirds on our bed) was also a balm.
Our German-speaking host with her kind, weathered face welcomed us with a smile that crinkled her eyes almost shut. We dusted off our Pennsylvania Dutch and were able to sort things out and settle in.
Early the next morning, the distant tinkling of cow bells drifted up from the valley below. The guys made breakfast, and we sat out on the balcony, enjoying the food, company, and the breath-taking panoramic mountain view. Later, as we wandered out into the hilly farm lane, the owner’s daughter came to us and wondered if we would like to go up to where they take their cows for summer grazing, a ten-kilometre drive of switch backs all the way up. We piled into the little, green farm pickup, and she drove expertly around those switch backs, deftly changing gears as we made our way up and up on the narrow farm road with its dizzying drop-offs at every turn. She took us to the end of the road and then asked if we wanted to hike further up to one of the summits. The air thinned as we climbed to the top where the 360 degree mountainous view was spectacular.
We spent the next couple days exploring the area, hiking to the top of a nearby waterfall, learning about Austrian farming, eating good food, and playing play cribbage. The hummingbird-type moths flitted in and amongst the lush geraniums that filled the flower boxes that ran the length of the railings on the balcony where we sat with our drinks, drinking in the view. It was the perfect place to catch our breath before embarking on the next leg of our trip. A guest house that housed our “guest houses”.
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’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honourably.
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 whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
~ Rumi ~ from The Essential Rumi
The invitation in Rumi’s poem is counter-intuitive, and frankly, I’m not sure it’s always applicable. There are times in life when we are met with profound loss, when wounds are too raw, or when we simply don’t have it in us to answer that door. When breathing seems barely possible. When you sit with your back to the door, knees pulled up tight. And that is necessary and right. Then, it seems, eventually, there comes this passage of time and with it, reflection. Maybe then it’s okay to crack open the door.
