I have always loved the word “meander.” It rolls slowly off the tongue just as one might wander down a garden path. It begs to be pronounced with a slow, southern drawl.I realize that in the past I often thought that to meander meant to wander off course or perhaps more judgmentally to waste time. Now, I think of the word meander more with longing than disdain. Unfortunately, I often think of it as something to do when all else is done. But when will that be? If indeed it is not now when?Rumi seems to ask the same question in his poem, “Sheba’s Hesitation.”
“You’re haggling about how much to payfor shoeing a donkey, when you could be seatedwith one who is always in union with God,who carries a beautiful garden inside himself.
You could be moving in a circuit without wing,Nourished without eating, sovereign without a throne.No longer subject to fortune, you could be luck itself,”
May we not miss the gardens that lie within & learn to move in a “circuit without wing” by giving ourselves permission to meander.
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