Let the Beauty We Love Be Our Offering

“Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.”
— Rumi from the poem "A Great Wagon"

There are a multitude of emotions that greet me at the start of a workday. Even when I feel competent, prepared and energized, there can be a quiet uncertainty underneath – wondering if this work truly makes a difference ... fearing that I may not be enough ... feeling weighed down by all the stories I’ve absorbed ... experiencing the isolation of carrying another’s pain.  Perhaps you know these feelings too.  In such moments, I especially need to pause and very intentionally “decide” how I want to show up for this day – not as an intellectual exercise, but as an emotional commitment.  That commitment is the response to an unspoken sacred invitation to bring my most life-giving self to the day.  When I “accept” that invitation, my life becomes a daily offering.   

That word—offering—brings to mind a colleague who loves to grow zinnias. But perhaps even more importantly, she loves to give them away. This time of year, she regularly arrives to work with bunches of brightly colored blooms, handing them out to staff, colleagues, and patients. The delighted expressions on their faces show they’ve received not just a flower, but something more—an intentional act of beauty. I imagine for many, it makes their day—and hers as well. This simple gesture doesn’t erase the challenges of our work, but it meets them with color, with presence, with generosity.  It is something sacred, something holy.

Rumi invites us to live this way: not simply by doing our work, but by infusing it with love, attentiveness, and beauty. “Take down a musical instrument,” he says, instead of disappearing into the routine. For us, that instrument might be a gentle touch, a kind word, a shared laugh, or a moment of silence. These acts, done with care and intention, become modern-day ways to kneel and kiss the ground. They transform the ordinary into an offering—a ritual of reverence within the everyday rhythm of care.

But we don’t establish and sustain this way of living and working alone. Connection is essential. Our colleagues are the ones who often remind us of the beauty we might overlook. They witness the sacredness of our labor when we have forgotten it. Through their presence, encouragement, and quiet humanity, they “kneel” beside us and help us remember that this work is not only clinical—it is profoundly spiritual, and communal.   

Together, we tend to something far deeper than any single task: we tend to life itself.  So here’s your invitation: bring a flower, a smile, a pause. Let the beauty you love show up in how you walk through the day. Let your work be not just effective, but meaningful—even beautiful. Let it be your offering. Because when we live this way—intentionally, lovingly, together—we’re not just providing care. We’re creating sacred ground, one quiet act at a time.  And I promise you, that matters ....