"There is a room beyond right or wrong. I go to it."--My Dad

I went to Ikea for the first time yesterday, and wandered in awe through their maze of pre-fabricated rooms like museum exhibits of some version of the American dream, the dream where you can have matching furniture and shelves full of books in Swedish. I got a shadowbox frame that I'm really excited to play with, and also these spice jars. Four for $2.99. And a down comforter! For cheap. Slave labor, Dad asked? Probably, I said. What would Rumi say about Ikea, Dad asked? And then he wrote a poem.


مولانا جلال الدین محمد رو

Yesterday was my dad's 61st birthday, and to celebrate it he put copies of poems by the 13th century Sufi poet Rumi in his coworkers' mailboxes. Also some sonnets, he said. Well here is a poem for you:

Not Here

There's courage involved if you want
to become truth. There is a broken-

open place in a lover. Where are
those qualities of bravery and sharp

compassion in this group? What's the
use of old and frozen thought? I want

a howling hurt. This is not a treasury
where gold is stored; this is for copper.

We alchemists look for talent that
can heat up and change. Lukewarm

won't do. Halfhearted holding back,
well-enough getting by? Not here.

If you want what visible reality
can give, you're an employee.
If you want the unseen world,
you're not living your truth.
Both wishes are foolish,
but you'll be forgiven for forgetting
that what you really want is
love's confusing joy.

Only one more Bush State of the Union to go, guys.