When I walked out of the closet
in big brown leather boots
with thick clunky heels
and rugged zig zag treads,
Rumi laughed out loud
and from the couch he said,
“You don’t need to wear those.”
“But my therapist told me to,”
I said. “For too long
I’ve been wearing
soft pink slippers so that I
could better tiptoe.”
“My dear,” said Rumi,
“You sound like a thudding
elephant. Is that really
what you want?”
“Well, no,” I said. “But I need
something sturdy and tough
to get me through all this muck.”
Rumi looked around the room.
“I don’t see any muck,” he said.
The wooden floors wore a glassy shine.
“Where’d it go?” I said, looking around
for the mess I’d skirted for years.
I must have looked disappointed.
As if I’d finally bought
the right shoes for the path,
but the path was no longer there.
At least not in the way I had seen.
Rumi smiled. “My dear, you look so sweet to me.
Go ahead. Wear the boots. Wear them
till your feet blister and ache,
till your toes are cramped
and your arches scream. Then take off
the boots, and take off your socks, and barefoot,
come again to me.”