Rumi came back to Beacon Hill. Among the fine buildings of brick, there is an unusual little street that takes a turn. At the turn there is a terrace with a garden which has the primrose bush that Rumi loves. 

Rumi can fly like the birds. He floated over the hill on the spring winds, and he alighted on the rooftop of the little house, made part of brick and part of wood, which was behind the terrace. The little house was not as fancy as the other Beacon Hill homes, but she was darling.

Rumi landed very softly, like a feather, but the little house knew right away that he was there!

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re back! I was afraid that you weren’t coming this year! I’ve been waiting and waiting!” she exclaimed.

“I promised you I would return with the spring,” Rumi said. “Like the birds, I can’t stay away from you, and from your primrose!”

The little house laughed.  “The primrose is very old. It was here long before I was built.”

“Yes, I know,” said Rumi. “Don’t you remember I told you that I brought the seedling here from Persia and planted it?”

“Tell me again why you did it.”

“I wanted something to remind me of home when I came to the new world. So, I planted it here on a grassy hill that was close to the sea. My friends, the Ponkapoags, took care of it for me.”

Clara, for that was the house’s name, said “And now everything has changed. The Ponkapoags are gone. The grass is gone … all of the houses were built over 200 years ago …”

Rumi continued for her. “Luckily, when this neighborhood was built, when you were built, the people who built the houses understood that the primrose was special and didn’t dig it up.  (I may have influenced them a little …) And since then, you, Clara, have taken care of the primrose for me.

And Rumi jumped down lightly from the rooftop onto the terrace next to the primrose.  The small petals were forming, red and pink, hidden beneath the dark green of the buds. Little leaves were stirring. Rumi looked at it lovingly, gently touching its leaves and branches.

“My friend …” he said, “You look splendid.  The winter has made you stronger and even more beautiful. When I see you, when I smell you, my heart is taken to the glorious garden in the park next to Shams’s house in Tabriz. You are from there. You help me remember the wonder of Shams!”

For Rumi well knew (who could forget?)  that the garden in the park in Tabriz had been gone for a long time; Persia had been gone for a long time … So, Rumi felt sadness, but he could not give in to bitterness or self-pity. Mostly Rumi felt love.

Clara felt the spring breeze and she watched Rumi sitting next to the primrose.

“The birds are coming back now, Rumi. I can hear them everywhere. You are like the birds … Where do you migrate from, Mr. Rumi?”

“I try to help those who need my help. I have just been in Syria, trying to ease the pain of those who have lost their loved ones. I go where I am called. I try to speak to people, but many people in the world can’t see me, can’t hear me. It may sound strange to you Clara, but I, and many of my friends, are actually inside of everyone. I have been inside everyone for a very long time, along with my comrades Shakespeare, Bach, Diotima, and many others! We are a band of brothers and sisters that are deeply inside of everyone!”

“What do you mean that you, you all, are inside of everyone? Are you inside of me, too?”

“Well, you are a very special house—I bet we are inside you, because you can see me and talk to me! We are inside of all beings that can possibly grow finer than they are by their own efforts. Mostly, on this planet, those beings are human beings. Beings that can grow all have a very fine part in them in which we reside. What is special about us? We are creatures who have become filled with light! And so, we try to help others. They need to work very hard to be able to listen to us, but when they do, their lives are changed forever! They can become happy, free, loving, and useful. I encourage them to find us within them.”

Just then, a young couple came down the little street, walked onto the terrace, and saw the primrose.

“What a lovely bush,” the young woman said.

“It looks very old,” said the young man.

They approached the primrose and took in its aroma. They narrowly missed touching Rumi. Then they walked on.

“They didn’t see you!” exclaimed Clara.

“They did not. Most people do not. Hopefully someday they will.

– Eric Hoch

Author’s Note: “Rumi Came Back to Beacon Hill” was inspired by an unusual house in the Beacon Hill section of Boston.