“Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”
—Rumi
One day you realize your sleet and fog are imagined, and you may go to Rumi’s field any time you wish. You don’t need directions or a map. Nothing in your closet requires mending. You don’t need clothes or a compass. Branches, stones, and stars don’t tremble; they sway, polish, and shine. And so can you. Neither wind nor dark skies matter. Wear dynamite in your shoes and explode if you must, but know that you are the funnel, not the wine; the vase, not the lilies; the artery, not the blood. Surrender paints her lips red. Kiss her. Often.