Sylvia's Journal

I woke up empty as opposed to waking up with my writing for the morning already spilling out before I have put my hands on the keyboard. That allowed me to take my time, make coffee, read the newspaper.

I did not have to rush out into the dark to beat the traffic, even though it is a Thursday, because I am seeing the shoulder doctor in the middle of this morning. I took the awkward timeslot from the hard-to-get-an-appointment-with-doctor because I am travelling again next Wednesday. I hope to get another shot of the miracle drug that will temporarily fix the rotator cuff problem like it did a year ago. I am not ready for anything more intrusive than that but I need something to stave off the possibility of a frozen shoulder.

Waking up empty is something that Rumi described in a poem that I happen to have stored on my computer:

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened.
Don’t open the door to the study
and begin reading
Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

It is quite fitting that I take my cue for starting the day from a 13th-century Persian poet. I am busy learning his language from CDs as I commute in and out of Cambridge. If he lived now I could ask him in his own language whether he wants a glass of tea or I could ask him where the main road is in Balkh, his alleged birthplace, in what is now Afghanistan.

I want to learn the language of Darius (Dari) because I want to express myself a little bit more when I am next in Afghanistan. How close the Farsi I am learning is to the Dari that my hosts in Kabul speak is anyone’s guess. I am negotiating with an Afghan woman who lives in Boston to help me sort that out but we can’t seem to get the timing of our lessons right, at least not before I leave again.

So, taking Rumi’s advice, I think I will strum a little on my ukulele and practice some new chords before I kneel and kiss the ground.