In this world full of mirrors How clearly does one see themselves Entertaining copious illusions, Praying to find comfort by fostering absentmindedness
As clocks tick— Seconds turning to hours, Hours to years Treading closer to ultimate demise Oneself is a testament to the deaths that occur each moment
This endless search for innocence In cloves of recollections But when peering deeply Reality is none were ever innocent
One can suppose, Maturity is a shattering of illusions Calling the soul to witness the horrors of itself In crystal clear mirrors
Lately, I’ve been attempting to find a new rhythm of spiritual practice, retrace my steps to relearn what it means to be an individual who serves God, who loves God and most importantly; who is God conscious. Do we absolve the meaning that intentionality brings in return for being a diligent soldier? Do we follow blindly without asking question, without coming to a deeper understanding of ourselves and God as One Union? And how do we allow ourselves to be properly yoked in the face of this magnificence that surrounds each one of us?
I’ve been searching for my relationship to the Ultimate to be much more prayerful. And silent all in the same instance.
You see, I was raised in a staunch Muslim background. I felt for most of my life, as I observed many of the practices of these wonderful, yet flawed individuals that there was missing the integral piece of clear-heartedness. It seemed that rituals were followed hollowly without true clear-heartedness- the sacred intention of wanting to be close to God for the love of this beautiful entity as opposed to guilt. Or fear.
When I actually think about it, many of these relationships included a sort of transactional dynamic between an individual and “the other”, which further perpetuated some reality of egotism. To believe that one is so important that they must be followed or ruled as some odd way of further proving this importance. I saw this in many peoples relationships not just with God but also, with authority figures; doctors/nurses, teachers and even parents.
It is true that many relationships on the outside definitely can operate in a transactional manner. “If you do this for me, I will love you more. If you don’t do this, I will hate you”, this is the idea isn’t it? In but so many words, we have continued to perpetuate this idea that our sense of worthiness, of being loved, cared for, accepted is dependent upon some outside validation of how good we are to other people. Of how good we are to the world. But the reality is that when you understand your inner worthiness apart from anyone else requiring it from you, this is when you truly are able to pour back into the world around you. How can we possibly expect to give freely, relentlessly and earnestly when we are giving from a place of needing someone else to validate us? We constantly place another’s mind and morality at the forefront of our consumption, needing someone, ANYONE to tell us that we’re good enough. And the real reason we need someone to tell us this is because we don’t believe it within ourselves. Thus, I feel this same fallacy, we project onto The Most High.
Tapping into the reality of God, for me at least, this being feels limitless. Merciful at the forefront, He see’s to the core of who we truly are. Seeing deeper than a meaningless identity of “this is who I am today and that’s who I was yesterday”, yet still allowing for us to experience this being through this very identity. So many stay perched on the surface level of who God is, believing that we are created in His image. Many believe that God has “likes and dislikes” and judges according to our feeble human affairs. That God takes human beings at face value and labels each of us as “good or bad”. A surface level, that places mans own ideology of morality and value at the forefront, instead of understanding and loving the intricacy of God’s nature and thus, failing to fall in love with their own.
What a gift life is when we are able to tune into the truth of who we have always been. We are able to tap into this limitlessness and relinquish false identities. Perched at the base of God’s throne, we recognize how small we are, and thank Him for it. I’d always marveled at the unique ability that religion sought to give tools and a means of absolving oneself in favor of the whole.
And The Whole is harmonious. It is also chaotic. It is an active and alive universe, with so many things happening in each instant since the beginning of time—it is expanding and releasing planets, while other ones die, when the star is absolved into a deep black hole and plunged into nothingness…What then is left behind? Then do the words of an abusive mother matter? Does the car that cuts you off on the way to work even make a dent in the reality of the cosmos? Does that emotion that you thought you’d NEVER get over, make its way back up to the heavens? Does man become that important to the grand scheme of creation?
Numerous times have I found myself at the precipice of grand self-importance. Maybe because I felt that if none of this meant anything, then God would dissolve itself. But at the ending of my identity, there is the beginning of the nameless, the formless that does not speak. But simply exists.
Lately, I’ve been trying to find a new rhythm of spiritual practice, retracing the rituals of old, the intentionality of my ancestors, the prayers that protected their graves. I’d searched so far only to come back to the place I’d started. Recognizing that to find God, the search must discontinue deep enough for me to dissolve myself, my separation, my opinion and distance. To melt back into this Majestic Creator who had always lingered deep within.
I pray that you find the strength to let go of yourself. Simply, to find yourself.
At times I feel meekly paralyzed
Covering my face at the shame of gruesome deeds
If one could perhaps rip the blindfold from their heart
Lay each story onto a scale and measure them
They’d be horrified at the punchlines we’ve been sold;
One man with limbs marred by pavements heat in the scorching summer
Somewhere near 96th Street
Onlookers watch gazes filled of disgust
And I, I disappear into the crowd
Stomach full of lead
Or perhaps the woman with two children
One upright, one decrepit
As she stumbles up and down flights with purse, babe and stroller in hand
Mere seconds from plunging to her demise
But her worry is with is the place she needs to go,
the mouths she need to feed,
the work she must return to
Never mind patrons passing idly along stairs until she trips on the first child,
Another rushing to grasp the falling carriage from her hands
As she tumbles down 8 flights, child firmly clasped to her chest
Woe to these current times—
Profit at the demise of our brothers
Without the means to purchase tombstones for graveyards
While others are sipping from gold plated cups
Until one sees the face of God within themselves
It is hard to see God in the needy man with burnt limbs;
The wailing child dangling from the mother’s arms;
The man on Wall Street stuffing his mouth with gold
I am horrifically guilty—
Wishing for the return of my innocence
I had always been a romantic. Ever since I was a young girl. I dreamed of being rescued by prince charming- being loved even in the midst of suffering and being saved to live happily ever after. However, the reality of life had other plans.
It’s been three years since my older sister passed from this earth and moved to the next stage in her spiritual life. My grandfather passed away earlier this year, about two weeks from his 87th birthday. They both always told me to be comfortable in who I was, to speak the truth and to express love while I’d had the chance. Both, flawed as all humans are, but beautiful in the contents of their soul.
While at home visiting for holidays, my mother asked me a bit timidly if I wanted to go with her to the cemetery. “Maybe we could go to your sister and grandad’s grave site but I’m not sure if you really want to..” I’d been procrastinating on going for the whole three years since my sister passed. Other things always came up; I moved from my hometown and as life proves again and again- time truly does foster forgetfulness. On that day, however, I could come up with no excuses. So, I thought “why not?” and drove with her to the cemetery.
Cemetery’s and funerals have always felt so melancholic. It was a dreary day- the clouds made the sky gleam a sickening grey, the rain made the soil damply wet. On pulling into the cemetery, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The grave site was filled to the brim with tombstones, practically placed upon the other, as close as they could without enmeshing the bodies underneath in order to provide space for the person lying next to them. Visiting cemetery’s are always quite sobering: telling the truth of a journey that we must all take.
We first visited my grandfather, placed right by the river which he loved dearly. This visit was filled with joy at the memory of the beautiful man he was, melancholy at the realization that six months have passed since his passing but also pride in that he lived a long glorious life. Soon after, we left and went on the search to find my sisters tombstone. In between getting lost amidst the other graves, the twisting and twirling of the road and the awkward placement of the landmarks, we finally caught sight of her stone and left the car to go pay our respects.
My mother gleefully calls “Hayat, look at who I brought to see you! She’s finally here.” At first, I felt numb to the core, recalling the day that we actually put her into the ground. I stood silently staring at her stone, unsure where to begin or what to say. At some point, I recall my mother whispering “I’ll give you some privacy to speak to your sister” and hearing her footsteps retreat to the other side of the graveyard. It was at that moment, in the stillness of the wind, tears rolling down my face, my head bowed and speaking softly to the wind that I had the opportunity of greeting my sister for the first time in three years.
Life is quite funny. It’s amazing how we search for love and care in the oddest of places. For the better part of my life, I’d been running across lands, states, places in search of a love that was the purest reflection of divinity. “I hope for a love that is accountable, joyful, easeful, quiet, unconditional, patient and Godly.” I created lists of what it would feel like, of how my partner would love me in hardship, hug me in pain, admonish me when I was wrong and be patient in the midst of adversity. But that day, something just clicked. I realized right there, in that moment, where I stood before the sobering truth of death that the love I had been looking for was right in front of me all along.
God bless my mother, the truest representation of love.
Genuinely Jannah 