Rumi's Field

"Out beyond every idea of right thinking and wrong thinking,
there's a field - will you meet me there?" ~Rumi

Out in Rumi's meadow there's a Walmart. Someone who earns her own way,
but makes a very modest salary, buys soap and clothing there. She feels proud
that she can support herself. No one disdains her for shopping at Walmart.

Out in Rumi's meadow, there's a man and woman who run a small farm
to raise a family. They sell delicious strawberries, string beans, kale and
cucumbers at market prices, in their own roadside farm stand. No one calls
them "capitalists."

Out in Rumi's meadow, there's an elder dying of cancer, who is very poor.
Neighbors all pitch in to care for him, bringing meals, paying doctor's bills,
singing to him in the evening. Each contributes what they can. No one
calls it "socialism."

Out in Rumi's meadow, the children play. They learn as they play. Wherever
someone raises corn or stitches quilts or builds a little house, the children visit
them and learn how to do it. They help. The old one's tell them stories. No one
calls it "school."

Out in Rumi's meadow, there is one human clan. People's bodies are oak and
walnut, rosewood and cream, kinnikkinik, cocoa bean and marigold. All of us
are sunbeams tinted with dust. No one gets called 'white' or 'black.'

Out in Rumi's meadow, the people gather in the evening to praise the stars,
to sing the moon round and full, to thank the sun, to ask the sky for rain.
No one calls it "prayer." They dance. When they are stunned by rays of sunset
through burgundy and magenta clouds, they close their eyes and fall into silence.
They tap creation's root. No one calls it "meditation."

Then, long into the night, they sing songs that the trees taught them, songs that
mushrooms and herbs taught them, because they are good listeners who remember.
But when they sing the praise songs of the forest, no one calls it "religion."

Out in Rumi's meadow, wholeness is like honey. To each according to their need,
from each according to their skill, they give, they share, they work, they love.
No one calls it "God."

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