For several weeks now, instead of having a cup of coffee first thing in the morning, I have switched to tea. Almost unconsciously. It seems to be what my body wants. I had the feeling that drinking coffee without any food was making my stomach a bit upset, but tea goes down much more easily. I sometimes like a coffee later in the day, but sometimes not.
It's finally raining here. We needed it badly. I planted some grass seed in the lawn here, and did lots of transplanting other places and a slow steady rain is perfect for these kinds of gardening. I have nothing on my docket today, thankfully, so hopefully can go thru some of the remaining boxes I have yet to unpack and get rid of books and other stuff that I don't need. Several of the local libraries are taking donations, so that's where the books will go.
Dream last night: I don't know who I was with, but . . . these huge birds with large beaks began dive bombing toward the ground, killing themselves. This person I was with just wanted to carry around the dead carcases, but I kept saying, they will rot, they will decay, they will smell bad, you cannot do that. I think some expert in the dream was saying the birds were committing suicide. I kept telling the person carrying the dead birds that she should take them to a taxidermist if she wanted to keep them.
Lunch with M & S & P was pleasant. I dug up my dianthus and my Sum and Substance hosta, and my tarragon, to transplant here. M had built a fire and it was warming and relaxing to sit in front of it drinking tea. Then we played a game of Blogus, I think it's called. Kind of fun. Then to the Rumi event. I thought more Rumi poetry was going to be read, but the poets read much of their own work, most of which was really quite fine. Especially liked Lisa Starr and Coleman Barks. Glen Velez, the percussionist, was particularly astonishing. But here is one Rumi poem read that I liked:
What Was Told, That
What was said to the rose that made it open was said
to me here in my chest.
What was told the cypress that made it strong
and straight, what was
whispered the jasmine so it is what it is, whatever made
sugarcane sweet, whatever
was said to the inhabitants of the town of Chigil in
Turkestan that makes them
so handsome, whatever lets the pomegranate flower blush
like a human face, that is
being said to me now. I blush. Whatever put eloquence in
language, that's happening here.
The great warehouse doors open; I fill with gratitude,
chewing a piece of sugarcane,
in love with the one to whom every that belongs!