It’s probably becoming apparent that I have a thing for Rumi.

In fact, I have a book that sits beside my big ol’ recliner reading chair; Coleman Bank’s,  A Year With Rumi. It’s tucked in next to Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, Open Mind by Diane Mariechild and Silence and Solitude by Eileen Campbell.

These are the books I sometimes peruse in the morning, either by the dates appearing at the top of A Year with Rumi and Open Mind or by doing a Bible-Bingo style random flip.

Sometimes I look for a poem in one of the books by Mary Oliver, or grab one of The Writer or  Writer’s Digest magazines for a random article. And sometimes I won’t look at any of them. It’s just enough to write my three morning pages and sip my cappuccino.

But mostly, if I look at anything, it’s Rumi that helps start my morning in a way that feels fitting. These poems seem sacred enough – and somehow grateful enough – to help me focus my mind to be properly aware of the magnitude of the gift of waking up to live for another day.

Yesterday’s poem goes like this…

Which is worth more, a crowd of thousands,

or your own genuine solitude?

Freedom, or power over an entire nation?

A little while alone in your room

will prove more valuable than anything else

that could ever be given you.