Every Morning a New Arrival

I have on my altar, leaning up against a driftwood statue of a pelican, this quote from Rumi:

This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. . .Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

The pelican is one of my totems. She is the consort of the great ocean, always carressing the undulating waves, finding riches in the hidden world between them. Sailing the air in perpetual discovery -- each day a new arrival -- so I imagine. I imagine the ocean offering her secret treasures that she carries home with her in her pouch, setting them on a window ledge to catch the evening light.

And so am I, pelican to the Soul, in thrall to her exquisite beauty, lifting treasures to my little window ledge at the edge of her vast reaches. Every morning a new arrival.

It is difficult to be grateful for some of these treasures. When I feel bad, it's as though the sun is obscured by fog. Everything is grey. To think highly of a meanness of spirit or of a depression seems so counterproductive. Seldom do I say to God, "thank you so much for making me sad today." Joy on the other hand has such a rare and exquisite beauty. It is like a prism to sunlight, casting rainbows everywhere.

The ocean in her moodiness throws up fog and storm and high winds and sunlight alike. Surprisingly, being counterproductive is often a good thing. Counter to productivity is degeneration, unmaking, decomposition. Decomposition returns things to the earth. It is earth-making -- Humus-making -- Humility-making -- Making of openness and empty places where new things can come to be.

If I can embrace my sadness or my anger as one of the ocean's treasures, I become Psyche's voice of Pathos. I become the foghorn sounding through the mists. I am fogbound, but am not myself the fog. I can then guide the large ships through the dangerous waters to safe harbor. "Oh my God, I'm so depressed," I moan. "Oh when will this terrible fog ever lift?" I howl. And the ships, following my voice, come safely home.