"Just as the skin of a fruit must crack before the heart can see the sun, so it is with you.

If you could keep your heart in awe of the miracles of life, your pain would be no less glorious than your happiness.

If only you could accept the seasons of your heart, like the seasons that pass through your fields,

Even in the Winter of your regrets and sorrows, you could look on in peace.

You chose your pain.

Pain is the tasteless medicine given by your inner physician to cure your diseased self.

Trust your inner physician and drink the healing he offers with calm and serenity.

Though his hand is heavy and hard, it is ruled by the soft hand of the unseen,

Although the glass he hands you will burn your lips,

But its clay is the clay into which the potter has put HOLY TEARS."

No one can describe pain as beautifully as Khalil Jibran. It is as if pain is like the breaking of the shell covering the soul. It is as if the nakedness of the soul is just standing there, bewildered and defenseless. Like the heart knowing the secrets of night and day in its silence, pain is the countless falls and YAS of the soul.

Rather than distorting the truth with fairy tales, the breaking of the hard shell surrounding the core of life, like the breaking down of the wall surrounding the garden of fruits and flowers, will bring us the fragrance of heaven again and again. To be able to taste life even in pain and sadness, to be able to inhale the bland taste of pain and the evaporated smell of nothingness to the fullest, may not be everyone's cup of tea, but one must know this heavenly mercy, this exuberance somewhere in the deepest part of one's being, in one's psyche.

Don't let the cold stance of pain and sadness mislead you. Do not let it depress your senses. Don't let its rigidity and silence penetrate like a sword into the woolly soft depths of your soul, don't let it cut your soul, be in acceptance, be in the flow, be in the moment, take it as it is so that it will grow, teach you whatever it will teach you...

The sun does not always rise in us, sometimes it lasts for nights, as if it were eternal. If we don't resent love, what is our anger at pain? Sometimes fate shakes us like a fiery censer, we may burn, we may burst into flames, but why do we forget that sooner or later we will be extinguished and reduced to ashes? They say that good fruit grows where there are dead volcanoes, that one day we will surely blossom and bloom again, but first we have to enjoy being burnt to ashes.

Who knows how old our soul is, maybe millions, maybe thousands of years old. Which one of us is not bruised? Which one of us is not bruised? With the recklessness of a child, playing around every fire, around every pit, not sensing the danger, sometimes he would slip and fall, unawares. What is surprising about that? Sometimes it is necessary to read the dignity of pain as well as the taste of exuberance. Sometimes it is necessary to lodge in a strange host without being tossed about like sand, realizing that the stranger is a part of us.

In the end, holy joys that will refresh the soul will fill us again, and our barren lands will rejoice again and cover the weariness and sadness. Man, the best example of patience, will once again wear on his head the most precious crown of happiness worthy of him.
Feel the beauty and light even in the deepest darkness, never stop dreaming of peace, tranquility, serenity, kindness, and above all, LOVE...

Mukaddes Pekin Başdil

Researcher-Author

Source: Denizli Haber