Ah, refreshment, and fixings. šAnd then comes a pause for reflectionā¦
Itās a Libra moon currently šand so I will start with the section I wrote about Rumi, and who was also chronologically the first poet discovered by me of these.
From medieval Persia born in the 13th century, September 30, 1207, and best-selling poet in our time, later critics would analyze him and write some things along the lines of “Rumi did not get any angels to come visit him. He was just mentally ill and not treated, and he wasnāt specialā¦None were there at all; not for him, and not for anyoneā¦ā as if Rumi (and his angels) should just be banished right out of the sensible world because the critic said so.
As Iād glimpsed that article, I would notice my own nurturing, protective feelings towards the poet who just recently had an 814th birthday (of earth years), and Iād find incredible lasting wisdom and beauty in his poems, along with my endearing sisterly feelings of baby brother care toward him that are not contradictory. (This is all metaphor; I am not suggesting my own mom is old enough to have a son of this age!) And Iād think to myself with a soft smile, Let Rumi have his angels.

One of the very first poems Iād read of his I could feel and instantly loved but also admitted to myself then I didnāt fully comprehend it, yet I felt that I would maybe some years later, and memorized the lines without trying, and I did:
The moment I heard my first love story I started looking for you Not knowing how blind that was. True lovers donāt finally meet somewhere; They are in each other all along.
āRumi
*
š¶Angels Unawareš¶
Previously: In Which I Actually Answer A Question or Two
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