He travels a long way. When he finally arrives at the capital city, he can't get to the place in his dream. He wanders around, unsure what to do. Finally, he gets another clue: go home and look under the kitchen stove.
He turns around and makes the long journey home. He starts digging. Sure enough, there's a chest full of gold right there under his kitchen floor.
He turns around and makes the long journey home. He starts digging. Sure enough, there's a chest full of gold right there under his kitchen floor.
***
This past year I've spent looking for a home. I've traveled to cities and forests and prairies and islands. I've slept on trains and walked on dirt roads. I've listened closely to my heart.
Sometimes she spoke in clipped commands. Other times I could barely make out little whimpers. Many times, even when she was loud and clear, I resisted.
But eventually, each time, I said, "Yes."
Each time, I looked at what was possible, and I said, "I want to risk my whole heart."
There was so much beauty. I found I could do things I didn't know were possible.
There were also spectacular failures. As you might have guessed, I didn't find the treasure in the capital city.
Maine friends, I can imagine you reading that and saying, "Hooray! She's coming back to Maine!"
It's true that I found the treasure right where I started from. It's true that it was there with me in Portland, Maine.
Like the man in the story, when I got to the beautiful spot from my dream where I thought the treasure would be, it wasn't there. All I had was my own broken heart. My own humble kitchen stove.
I listened again. There were no words at first, only sobbing. I kept listening. Finally, my aching heart whispered, "Come home." As quickly as I could, I went back there. I cleared the space, and I started digging.
I kept digging.
For weeks, by myself, I dug and I dug and I dug.
I'm a bit shy to share what I uncovered. Of course you already know. It's so simple, and so tender. And perhaps my shyness has to do with how... universal it is. My story is the story of everyone. It's the journey we're all on, each of us with our own particulars.
I found the treasure. I found my home.
It's not a place.
I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door. It opens. I've been knocking from the inside!
Sometimes she spoke in clipped commands. Other times I could barely make out little whimpers. Many times, even when she was loud and clear, I resisted.
But eventually, each time, I said, "Yes."
Each time, I looked at what was possible, and I said, "I want to risk my whole heart."
There was so much beauty. I found I could do things I didn't know were possible.
There were also spectacular failures. As you might have guessed, I didn't find the treasure in the capital city.
Maine friends, I can imagine you reading that and saying, "Hooray! She's coming back to Maine!"
It's true that I found the treasure right where I started from. It's true that it was there with me in Portland, Maine.
Like the man in the story, when I got to the beautiful spot from my dream where I thought the treasure would be, it wasn't there. All I had was my own broken heart. My own humble kitchen stove.
I listened again. There were no words at first, only sobbing. I kept listening. Finally, my aching heart whispered, "Come home." As quickly as I could, I went back there. I cleared the space, and I started digging.
I kept digging.
For weeks, by myself, I dug and I dug and I dug.
I'm a bit shy to share what I uncovered. Of course you already know. It's so simple, and so tender. And perhaps my shyness has to do with how... universal it is. My story is the story of everyone. It's the journey we're all on, each of us with our own particulars.
I found the treasure. I found my home.
It's not a place.
I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door. It opens. I've been knocking from the inside!
- Rumi
 |
| Where I sat digging. |
