My Life is Not Mine

The Bountiful OneDear One,

This morning with sun pouring through my windows and my cup of coffee made perfect by my love I am thinking of you. Of us. At human being-ness. I sit in wonder that we get to be here, at this time, doing whatever it is we are doing. So many hard things. So many beautiful things.

Every day I say to myself, this is not a day on any calendar. Then this morning when my Love opened the Illuminated Rumi he choose this poem below. Of course I wanted to share with you, too. Now I shall go for a walk in the woods. We are filming this morningfor The Muse of Intuition for the Red Key series in Cosmic Cowgirls, and then I have interviews for Color of Woman 2013 all day long. So I shall start with painting to balance computer/phone/creation with some green paint and creek water. I woke up knowing I wanted to start with dipping my paper for my painting in the creek water before adding any color.

Spring is coming, I can smell it, and the daffodils are telling me to go outside. My grandmother Helen used to call me when the very first daffodil showed her face each winter spring shift. When I see them, it always makes me miss her. Today I will go and see them.

My life is not mine. It belongs to the Beloved. And you are a part of that. This is why I write to you.

Blessings on your day,

Shiloh Sophia

Spring, and everything outside is growing,
even the tall cypress tree.
We must not leave this place.
Around the lip of the cup we share, these words,

“My Life Is Not Mine.”

If someone were to play music, it would have to be very sweet.
We’re drinking wine, but not through lips.
We’re sleeping it off, but not in bed.
Rub the cup across your forehead.
This day outside is living and dying.

Give up wanting what other people have.
That way you’re safe.
“Where, where can I be safe?” you ask.

This is not a day for asking questions,
not a day on any calendar.
This day is conscious of itself.
This day is a lover, bread, and gentleness,
more manifest than saying can say.

Thoughts take form with words,
but this daylight is beyond and before
thinking and imagining. Those two,
they are so thirsty, but this gives smoothness
to water. Their mouths are dry, and they are tired.

The rest of this poem is too blurry
for them to read.

~ Rumi