The Guest House
Welcoming an Unexpected Guest
Recently, Rumi’s poem The Guest House came to mind again. It has long been one of my favorites. Something about it speaks to me on a soul level.
Rumi writes:
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.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
— Jalaluddin Rumi
(translation by Coleman Barks)
I have always loved the image in this poem—the idea that our lives are like a house where different visitors arrive each day. Joy, sadness, insight, disappointment, clarity. Some stay only briefly. Others linger longer than we would like.
Rumi suggests that we welcome them all.
Not because they are easy or pleasant, but because each may carry something we need to learn.
At this particular moment in my life, the metaphor feels especially vivid.
I have recently been preparing a new home in Bellingham. A small waterfront condo that already feels like a sanctuary to me. As I arrange the rooms, choose furniture, and slowly shape the space, I find myself thinking about hospitality. About creating a place where friends and family can come, sit, talk, laugh, and rest.
There is even a guest room.
A quiet space with soft light that I have begun to think of as Water Light Studio—a place for reflection, creativity, and perhaps the occasional visiting soul who needs a place to land.
But while I have been preparing this home for guests, another guest has quietly arrived in my life.
Parkinson’s disease.
PD did not knock politely.
It arrived uninvited and sat down in the room.
And Rumi’s words return to me again:
Meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
If I am honest, I feel a little wary of this guest.
It is unpredictable.
Difficult to read.
Not entirely welcome.
And yet… I am curious.
Because somewhere inside me is the quiet sense that this guest may lead me toward a deeper life.
A life with more presence.
More attention to the body.
More appreciation for ordinary moments.
A life rooted in the kind of connection I find myself longing for now—
deep, meaningful connection with other people
and with the world itself.
If Parkinson’s is going to remain in the house for a while,
perhaps we can learn something from one another.
For now, I am simply opening the door.
Watching.
Listening.
And wondering what this unexpected guest might reveal.
Time, I suspect, will tell.
Inspired by the poem “The Guest House” by Jalaluddin Rumi.