I read that airbnbs are in trouble. People are cancelling en masse because of the virus, and what was once a lucrative side income, welcoming strangers to visit for a few days, has become an empty hole. Our family's plans caved as well, in spite of the confidence I felt after two solid months of deliberation last summer. It turns out that fifteen adults have a lot of opinions. Well, we didn't ask Ben to weigh in. But no one could have dreamed up the enormous shift in what we consider safe.  

 

There is a poem by Rumi that suggests the notion of opening your doors to all manner of emotions. Even the ugly ones. The premise is that all of them have been sent to bless us. While I resist admitting it, I must concur.

 

I recall a time I felt deflated because of the lukewarm reaction I got for what I considered to be a nifty gift. The memory fueled a surge of appreciation for what others have done for me which lasted for weeks. It even niggled me to pen a tardy thank you letter for a kindness that took place years ago.

 

Another time I was frustrated to have hurt my back. The hours in bed fostered renewed empathy for the people I know who have dealt with injuries that I glossed over. That too, outlasted the inconvenience. 

 

A time I was lost in an unfamiliar city brought up fears that I would never find my way. Sometimes the remembrance returns just when I could too easily dismiss another person's angst. 

 

I wonder what the crowd of sorrows knocking at our closed doors will bring.