He opens us readers into awe and mystery and playful teasing. I came upon this, to me new, poem by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi. a voice as deeply domestic and human as the ones many of our readers grew up with in what we learned to call America, a voice to remind us as we gather that this country of immigrant-set tables with foods from around the wide world. I looked for a poet from outside the U.S. Breathing time, nap times, time for old stories re-told, for the City’s massive Parade, for football. Wednesday opens into a Thursday that has three Saturday-like days in a row. Last minute grocery shopping runs, the small-scale excitements of family and close friends with the oldest of rituals, cooking for familiar company. Wednesday before Thanksgiving, work, for many of us, begins to shift from professional skills to hospitality arts – calculating the weight of a large turkey in terms of cooking time, family-special recipes, families gathering across generations. Wednesday, November 22 Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi - “When I die”
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