Yesterday I spoke on the phone with my parents, as I do almost daily since my father started with the hospice program following his heart attack. We usually talk about daily things, but we know we talk just to connect. We reserve the direct expressions of love like fine wine, to be tasted occasionally.

My dad was a robust, active man until a few months ago, but he has a serene acceptance of what his body is doing now and that he could die any time. His grounding is in a deep and long-tempered faith. Decanting, I told my dad yesterday what an inspiration his attitude was. My mother -- by his side all day every day now, which must be just as trying in some ways -- told me that someone recently asked how he was and he responded: "The real me is fine."

Who Says Words with My Mouth?

All day I think about it,
then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and
what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere,
I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent,
sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear
who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes?
What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord,
and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here
will have to take me home.

This poetry.
I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

-- Version by Coleman Barks
"The Essential Rumi"
Castle Books, 1997