Morning opens a door with help for/ those who don’t ask for any. Love// tears its shirt. Mind begins the sewing repair. You come and both// run off. I burn like aloe wood to/ touch the one who set this. Dressed// sometimes like disaster, sometimes/ like a guide, the ox of the self// sweetens his mouth in a pasture. A// parrot falls in love with an Arabian/ colt. Fish want linen shirts. The// drunken lions hunt drunken gazelles.// It cannot be said how you take form./ One man asks for spoiled cheese.// The prayer rugs all point different/ ways. If you would soak again the// evening sky your garnet red, the/ qibla tips would turn that way.

Rumi

“Morning opens a door with help for those that don’t ask for any.” That is a comforting thought. It reminds me that grace is freely given, and of a love that knows no bounds. I can be dressed like disaster and my prayer rugs all point different ways. I can be as centered as a drunken lion hunting a drunken gazelle. I can seek salvation in spoiled cheese. Despite all that, I can still see the evening sky. That is the hope of everyday. Every. Day. As surely as the sun rises and sets, grace is there. Repair is there. Calm is there.