There is a field,
long before that of Rumi,
that we all know.

Wide open expanse
with no end.
Where the wind howls
with such strength
that even making one step
is achievement itself,
so soft and unsteady
is the clay underfoot.

Where a low sun dazzles,
but offers no warmth.
And we push on,
side by side
with our own bedraggled ghosts,
all looking for some respite
from the incessant torments
both within
and without.

Where hope exists,
not in the spectacle
or the cheers of the crowd,
but in each hard won step;
again and again
and again.

Until soon,
or maybe longer,
does a gate finally appear.

Offering relief,
that this setting will change
and the precious chance,
to find ecstasy
in simple movement,
once again.

(Poem from Brushstrokes  – Thoughts and poems on having had a small stroke at 34 yrs old)