Rumi Polished Quotes

If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?

If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished??

Everyone sees the unseen in proportion to the clarity of his heart, and that depends upon how much he has polished it. Whoever has polished it more sees more - more unseen forms become manifest to him.

What sort of person says that he or she wants to be polished and pure, then complains about being handled roughly?

If you are irritated by every rub, how will you be polished?

The garden of the world has no limits Except in your mind. Its presence is more beautiful than the stars With more clarity Than the polished mirror of your heart.

As Rumi says, “If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?

BOOK BEAUTY Here's the end of that story about the old woman who wanted to lure a man with strange cosmetics. She made a paste of pages from the Qur'an to fill the deep creases on her face and neck with. This is not about an old woman, dear reader. It's about you, or anyone who tries to use books to make themselves attractive. There she is, sticking scripture, thick with saliva, on her face. Of course, the bits keep falling off. "The devil," she yells, and he appears! "This is a trick I've never seen. You don't need me. You are yourself a troop of demons!" So people steal inspired words to get compliments. Don't bother. Death comes and all talking, stolen or not, stops. Pity anyone unfamiliar with silence when that happens. Polish your heart with mediation and quietness. Let the inner life grow generous and handsome like Joseph. Zuleika did that and her "old woman's spring cold snap" turned to mid-July. Dry lips wet from within. Ink is not rouge. Let language lie bygone. Now is where love breathes.

If metal can be polished to a mirrorlike finish, what polishing might the mirror of the heart require? Between the mirror and the heart is this single difference: the heart conceals secrets, while the mirror does not.

You who seek God, apart, apart The thing you seek, thou art, thou art. If you want to seek the Beloved’s face. Polish the mirror, gaze into that space. These words were written by Rumi as a tribute for his master guru Shams of Tabriz.

CLEANSING CONFLICT What is a saint? One whose wine has turned to vinegar. If you're still wine-drunkenly brave, don't step forward. When your sheep becomes a lion, then come. It is said of hypocrites, "They have considerable valor among themselves!" But they scatter when a real enemy appears. Muhammad told his young soldiers, "There is no courage before an engagement." A drunk foams at the mouth talking about what he will do when he gets his sword drawn, but the chance arrives, and he remains sheathed as an onion. Premeditating, he's eager for wounds. Then his bag gets touched by a needle, and he deflates. What sort of person says that he or she wants to be polished and pure, then complains about being handled roughly? Love is a lawsuit where harsh evidence must be brought in. To settle the case, the judge must see evidence. You've heard that every buried treasure has a snake guarding it. Kiss the snake to discover the treasure! The severe treatment is not toward you, but the qualities that block your growth. A rug beater doesn't beat the rug, but rather the dirt. A horse trainer switches not the horse, but the going wrong. Imprison your mash in a dark vat, so it can become wine. Someone asks, "Don't you worry about God's wrath when you spank a child?" "I'm not spanking my child, but the demon in him." When a mother screams, "Get out of here!" she means the mean part of the child. Don't run from those who scold, and don't turn away from cleansing conflict, or you will remain weak. Also, don't listen to bragging. If you go along with self-importance, the work collapses. Better a small modest team. Sift almonds. Discard the bitter. Sour and sweet sound alike when you pour them out on the rattling tray, but inside they're very different.

Muhammad once was talking to a crowd of chieftains, princes with great influence, when a poor blind man interrupted him. Muhammad frowned and said to the man, "Let me attend to these visitors. This is a rare chance, whereas you are already my friend. We'll have ample time." Then somebody nearby said, "That blind man may be worth a hundred kings. Remember the proverb, Human beings are mines." World-power means nothing. Only the unsayable, jeweled inner life matters. Muhammad replied, "Do not think that I'm concerned with being acknowledged by these authorities. If a beetle moves toward rosewater, it proves that the solution is diluted. Beetles love dung, not rose essence. If a coin is eager to be tested by the touchstone, that coin itself may be a touchstone. A thief loves the night. I am day. I reveal essences. A calf thinks God is a cow. A donkey's theology changes when someone new pets it and gives it what it wants. I am not a cow, or thistles for camels to browse on. People who insult me are only polishing the mirror

As Rumi once said, “Oh ye who can’t take a good rub. How will you ever become a polished gem?” So, allow yourself to get buffed by the roughness of life, with all the flawed and fallible humans who surround you on the journey. Because then, and only then, can you go out there and shine for all the world to see.

Let Go Of Your Worries Let go of your worries and be completely clear-hearted, like the face of a mirror that contains no images. If you want a clear mirror, behold yourself and see the shameless truth, which the mirror reflects. If metal can be polished to a mirror-like finish, what polishing might the mirror of the heart require? Between the mirror and the heart is this single difference: the heart conceals secrets, while the mirror does not.

Don’t be satisfied with stories of how things have gone with others. Unfold your own myth. —Rumi, thirteenth-century Persian poet • What are the personal narratives that frame your past, and possibly predict the future and achievement of your dreams? • What are the sorrows in your life? Can you build dreams that help make sense of your sadness? • How can telling stories help us discover or rediscover our dreams? What cues can we find about our dreams in the stories we most often tell (and those we don’t) about our lives? • How do the stories we tell ourselves when we’re alone differ from those we tell our family and friends, our children, or those whom we mentor? For example, stories that I tell my children and mentees tend to be well crafted and confident. Stories I share with my peers are less-polished recountings of personal experiences, both happy and sad. The stories I tell myself are rarely as upbeat. • Consider the words of writer and theologian Frederick Buechner: “God calls you to the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” If you were to craft a narrative using that quote as a starting point, what story would you tell, whether written, painted, danced, photographed, or sung?

People who insult me are only polishing the mirror.

Fear Everyone can see how they have polished the mirror of the self, which is done with the longings we're given. Not everyone wants to be king! There are different roles and many choices within each. Troubles come. One person packs up and leaves. Another stays and deepens in a love for being human. In battle, one runs fearing for his life. Another, just as scared, turns and fights more fiercely.

What sort of person says that he or she wants to be polished and pure, then complains about being handled roughly?

In one life she was a travel vlogger who had 1,750,000 YouTube subscribers and almost as many people following her on Instagram, and her most popular video was one where she fell off a gondola in Venice. She also had one about Rome called 'A Roma Therapy'. In one life she was a single parent to a baby that literally wouldn't sleep. In one life she ran the showbiz column in a tabloid newspaper and did stories about Ryan Bailey's relationships. In one life she was the picture editor at the National Geographic. In one life she was a successful eco-architect who lived a carbon-neutral existence in a self-designed bungalow that harvested rain-water and ran on solar power. In one life she was an aid worker in Bostwana. In one life a cat-sitter. In one life a volunteer in a homeless shelter. In one life she was sleeping on her only friend's sofa. In one life she taught music in Montreal. In one life she spent all day arguing with people she didn't know on Twitter and ended a fair proportion of her tweets by saying 'Do better' while secretly realising she was telling herself to do that. In one life she had no social media accounts. In one life she'd never drunk alcohol. In one life she was a chess champion and currently visiting Ukraine for a tournament. In one life she was married to a minor Royal and hated every minute. In one life her Facebook and Instagram only contained quotes from Rumi and Lao Tzu. In one life she was on to her third husband and already bored. In one life she was a vegan power-lifter. In one life she was travelling around South Corsican coast, and they talked quantum mechanics and got drunk together at a beachside bar until Hugo slipped away, out of that life, and mid-sentence, so Nora was left talking to a blank Hugo who was trying to remember her name. In some lives Nora attracted a lot of attention. In some lives she attracted none. In some lives she was rich. In some lives she was poor. In some lives she was healthy. In some lives she couldn't climb the stairs without getting out of breath. In some lives she was in a relationship, in others she was solo, in many she was somewhere in between. In some lives she was a mother, but in most she wasn't. She had been a rock star, an Olympics, a music teacher, a primary school teacher, a professor, a CEO, a PA, a chef, a glaciologist, a climatologist, an acrobat, a tree-planter, an audit manager, a hair-dresser, a professional dog walker, an office clerk, a software developer, a receptionist, a hotel cleaner, a politician, a lawyer, a shoplifter, the head of an ocean protection charity, a shop worker (again), a waitress, a first-line supervisor, a glass-blower and a thousand other things. She'd had horrendous commutes in cars, on buses, in trains, on ferries, on bike, on foot. She'd had emails and emails and emails. She'd had a fifty-three-year-old boss with halitosis touch her leg under a table and text her a photo of his penis. She'd had colleagues who lied about her, and colleagues who loved her, and (mainly) colleagues who were entirely indifferent. In many lives she chose not to work and in some she didn't choose not to work but still couldn't find any. In some lives she smashed through the glass ceiling and in some she just polished it. She had been excessively over- and under-qualified. She had slept brilliantly and terribly. In some lives she was on anti-depressants and in others she didn't even take ibuprofen for a headache. In some lives she was a physically healthy hypochondriac and in some a seriously ill hypochondriac and in most she wasn't a hypochondriac at all. There was a life where she had chronic fatigue, a life where she had cancer, a life where she'd suffered a herniated disc and broken her ribs in a car accident.