Tuning the Heart

My first thought was neither kind nor charitable.

Autumn arrived out of season.

The early-morning breeze was wrapped in gladness, and the birdsong was perfection—surely a nightingale had been appointed choir master overnight. The whim of the wind played with tree branches and new flowers on long stems. The sun’s slender streaks shone through thick woodland, their light dancing on leaves.

Nature lured me, so I walked to the riverfront.

A snowshoe hare nibbled clover in a small patch of grass. At peace, he knew it was an autumnal day, with flirtatious breezes carrying the scents of spring. I smiled at the blue, sparkling river. Marshmallow clouds drifted beneath the blue dome. Flags billowed. Boats were moored. One boat’s sails sculpted the wind in the middle of the river, while white-capped waves lapped, creating bits of foam.

I started back home on Second Street. Yes! The bistro. Fresh croissant. I sat outside listening to morning doves coo from high wires and church steeples and the highest treetops.

The walk home began on a dirt path lined with wildflowers and climbing crimson roses along broken fences. I stepped onto the pavement and heard a loud, angry voice. An old man screamed at another in foul language, and his rancor landed on me, shattering my morning’s peace in seconds.

My first thought was neither kind nor charitable, but harsh. I stilled. Breathed. After 45 years of meditation and writing about kindness and love, how could I have such thoughts?

But I did.

I became Rumi’s Guest House, trying to negotiate with and accept the deeply human parts of myself.

My inner rage was no different from the angry man’s outward expression.

(His anger? Ah, someone had parked on the street in front of his lawn without asking. It was Community Day in the Village. They didn’t know the parking laws because they didn’t live here. The angry man lived in a well-ordered home with an immaculately kept lawn and garden. He considered that small stretch of road part of his homestead. The car was an intrusion. I understood.)

And I forgot that the strings of my heart always need tuning.

Once home, I set the kettle to boil for tea. Soon, the mug of hot brew was in my hands. Gazing out the window, I was delighted to see the snowshoe hare nibbling grass. And something more: Two plump doves perched on the closest branch of the closest tree nearest my window.

I spent the morning laughing out loud at my arrogance and baffling, harmful intention toward a man, ‘same as me.’

Grateful, too, for another life lesson with peaceful companions, seen and unseen.

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About the Art

Two Plump Doves/Photograph
© 2024
Lee Anne Morgan

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With gratitude for companions along the way~

Rumi’s ‘Guest House’

“Same Kind of Different as Me" is a phrase attributed to Denver Moore, chronicled in his 2006 memoir co-authored with Ron Hall.

Hafiz—The Heart Is a Thousand-Stringed Instrument