Rumi found me for good in the fall of 2006. I was at a Buddhist meditation retreat: silent, except for the teachings. And the teachings often included Rumi poetry backed up by a hand drum. 

So, when I'm feeling off-kilter, Rumi becomes a beacon. Today, it's this.

As Much as a Pen Knows

Do you think that I know what I'm doing?
That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself?

As much as a pen knows what it's writing,
or the ball can guess where it's going next.