The Unseen Weeper

In a majlis full of souls that ponder, weep, and grieve
There is a man who sits among us, who the people seldom see
His heart encompasses the pain of the whole of humankind
His soul a finite mirror of the love of the Divine
He is acquainted with the secrets within the heart of every being
He makes dua for every lover, for our guidance and well-being
And every time our hearts grow heavy with the burden of our sins
He experiences that heaviness, as if it belongs to him

In this age of dhulumaat, where darkness reigns supreme
mankind is dazed in slumber, as if caught within a dream
and the heart of every lover has grown restless in its cage
as it seeks a sanctuary in this catastrophic age
Where genocide goes unpunished, and colonizers get ovations
For the rates at which they bomb children dying of starvation.

Tonight, we offer our condolences to the Master of our time
The one whose justice we await to shift the broken paradigm
Of this wounded, dying world, built on capital exploitation
Enriched by the dying embers of systematic deprivation

Please illuminate the way, beloved Master of our time
In this world that stands submerged beneath the gravity of crimes
Too numerous to mention, too horrific to recount
With enemies too powerful for the weak ones to surmount

No longer can we bear the sight of children set aflame
No longer can we tolerate their agony and pain
For in the faces of the children that flee the burning tents of Rafah
We see the shadow of a girl who fled a tent in Karbala
As her clothing caught on fire, and her tender cheeks were bruised
By the shameless slaps of tyrants and their merciless abuse.

The revolution of Hussain lives on within our rage
As we vow to rise against the Yazid of every age
Ya Muntaqim, ya Qaim, as we weep for Ababdillah
Deepen our wilayah, and our submission- o Allah!
Grant us the taufeeq to bear witness to his reign
Grant us the taufeeq to join the avenger of Hussain

May our salaams be unto you, ya Baqiyat al Anbiya
May our salaams be unto you, Master of the awliya
Please grant us your ziyarah, with our hearts and with our eyes
Please grant us your wilayah, in every era of our lives
And on the day when hearts are weeping, for the fear of Allah’s wrath
O beloved of Zahra, keep us firm upon your path
O Hujjah of our time, may our hearts belong to you
Please forgive our sinful souls, as we make our way to you.

A Reflection on Dua Arafah and the Immaculate Tawhid of Imam Hussain (as)

When I sit down to write about my favorite muses, poets, artists, and thinkers, my ink flows freely, but when I write the name ‘Hussain’, my pen falters and all language feels insufficient. In Dua Arafah, Imam Hussain (as) asks God how he could ever repay Him for the infinite blessings He has given him, but the heart of the lover asks God: how could we ever thank You for giving us Hussain?

As I listen to Dua Arafah each year, I am struck by a painful realization: each of the body parts Imam Hussain swears by in this dua were trampled and destroyed beyond recognition on the day of Ashura. It is as if he swore his unconditional submission to God on the day of Arafah, then sealed that oath on the 10th of Muharram by sacrificing every inch of himself in absolute totality. Has anyone ever fulfilled a oath so thoroughly? Has any expression of love for the Beloved ever resonated so powerfully? Not only did Imam Hussain safeguard the path of tawhid with his blood and the blood of his children, he gave us an immortal blueprint by which to navigate that path, no matter how far or how often we stray.

The depth of the tawhid expressed in this dua fills me with shame and absolute awe. I find it hard to listen to without pausing to allow certain lines to sink in and weave their way into the fabric of my flawed heart. My mind tries to imagine these words uttered by the same tongue that recited Surah Kahf from atop a spear; the thought leaves me breathless. As Imam Hussain thanks God for the cartilage of his ribs, I think of the moment on Ashura when his ribs were audibly crushed beneath the hooves of the enemy’s horses. As he thanks God for the cord of his aorta and the lines on his forehead, I think of the lines in Ziyarat Nahiya when the 12th Imam (atf) sends his greetings upon the one whose aorta was severed; the one whose forehead bore the sweat of death as he fell to the ground, covered in wounds, casting a final glance toward the tents of his beloved family.

The gratitude professed by Imam Hussain in Dua Arafah is not a detached, ritualistic gratitude; it is a gratitude encased in all-encompassing submission, reflecting a depth of God-consciousness in which the Imam unequivocally lays bare his absolute nothingness before God’s absolute greatness. As he conveys his thanks for every physical and existential blessing, it is as if Imam Hussain is saying, “each of these blessings came from You, everything that I am belongs to You, and when it pleases You most, I will gladly sacrifice every trace of this self solely for Your pleasure.” The martyrdom of Imam Hussain on Ashura is a culmination of the secret he shared in Dua Arafah; the climax of the totality of submission in which the lover sees only the Beloved and completely ceases to see himself.

The humility and God-consciousness expressed in this dua reimmerses me in the gravity of who Imam Hussain was: the beloved grandson of the Holy Prophet (pbuh), the child of Ali (as) and Fatima (as), the prince of the youth of Paradise, the one whose cradle became a means of healing for the angels, the one whose grave remains a place of healing and renewal for his lovers, one of the sanctified Ahl al Kisa for whom the universe was created, the lamp of eternal guidance, and the one who exemplified tawhid in a manner that shattered the throne of falsehood forever. Over a thousand years later, Imam Hussain (as) remains one of the rarest secrets from among the secrets of God. Our understanding of him is like an unfinished conversation that the soul becomes awash in year after year.

x r

A Few of My Deeply-held Beliefs

I believe in worship that runs so deep, it bathes everything in the warm, healing glow of love.  I believe in the interconnectedness of all things, the innate worthiness of all souls, the innate beauty of sacred sentiments, and the unparalleled majesty of visible miracles such as sunrises and starry nights.  I believe that gratitude is akin to prayer and that the expression of joy is a holy sacrament.  I believe that a focused moment of true understanding and compassion is enough to win the heart of God, but that His decrees exist to give every human soul a grounded, necessary methodology by which to evolve, become, & know itself- and gradually, to know Him.  I believe in the pursuit of inner magnificence and the holiness of empathy; that the heart reaches its highest point of actualization when it learns to seek beauty in everything it beholds; that love is the name we give to anything that conveys us to the Divine.

I believe that humility is the purest pathway to God’s presence, that every soul we encounter has something vital to teach us, that no one is irredeemable except the soul too arrogant to be taught. I believe that a sincere moment of kindness can surpass the resonance of a year of worship, that one of the most critical achievements is to master the balance of disciplining one’s own soul while offering grace to others. I believe that reacquiring the ability to be delighted by the trivial and mundane is the highest human art. I believe that the soul only tastes true peace when it surrenders to the One who created it; that anything can be endured by a heart that has been moved by His nearness, that there is nothing more exquisitely beautiful than a loving gaze that echoes His mercy.

x r

Moments of Transcendence: A Lover’s Reflections on Ziyarat-e Ashura

On the eve of the 10th of Muharram, i sit for a while to listen to Ziyarat-e Ashura, and i suddenly feel like i’m experiencing it for the very first time in my existence. It’s as if every word has come alive and is sprouting within my heart; every expression of love and every expression of dissimulation suddenly feels like a living entity. The intense duality of these contrasting sentiments shakes my soul awake, surging through my veins with an electric fervor. I am still vaguely aware of my body and its relationship with the material plane, but my consciousness feels diffused into an understanding far deeper and far greater than its own feeble parameters. For a few moments, i feel as if i’m experiencing this ziyarah through the consciousness of a heart beyond my own. I don’t dare name the owner of this heart or this greater consciousness, but his wilayah reigns over my being with such force in these moments that i feel momentarily lost within him, like a tiny rivulet of water consumed by a purified river.

As the ziyarah continues, i feel an unnameable ecstasy at the unfamiliarity of the wavelength that has suddenly pulled my soul into its orbit, coupled with an awed sense of grief at the enormity of Imam Hussain- his suffering and his beauty, his grace and his immeasurable glory. This awe then shifts into an ever-deepening awe at the Creator of Imam Hussain, and for a few moments, my heart feels traces of the ancient awe my forefather Adam (as) must have felt when he spoke the names of the Ahlul Kisa (as) and sought Divine mercy through them. As i recite the lines of tawassul contained within this ziyarah, i feel as if i’m treading in Adam’s footsteps, seeking the love of my Creator through the love of the beings He most loves.

As my heart circles around the precipice of love for the King of Martyrs, i understand why i’m experiencing this ziyarah through a heart beyond my own. My own heart- endlessly mired in multiplicity, distraction, ignorance, and sin- could never handle this depth of understanding if left to its own devices; my consciousness would implode if it spent more than a moment trying to reflect on the greatness of my Imam. This borrowed awareness is only mine for a few moments, but it strikes me that this must be the daily, recurring experience of the many great scholars who revisit this ziyarah every day and night, habitually renewing their hearts by the light of each line. In these moments, i come to understand it not merely as a time-honored tradition, but as a timeless encapsulation of Tawhid that contains endless layers both visible and hidden. It also reminds me that true faith is a synthesis of both love and hate; that the vanquishing of batil is as sacred as the upholding of haqq- and this is one of the central tenets of Imam Hussain’s final stand in Karbala. 

It has been said that Sayyid Ali Qadhi once appeared in Agha Bahjat’s dream and informed him that if he could make sure to do one thing in his life, he would recite Ziyarat e Ashura twice on a daily basis. The first time i heard this story, i was perplexed. We’ve been blessed with no shortage of exquisite duas and ziyaraat; what sets this particular supplication above the rest in the eyes of our greatest scholars? As i ponder this question now, minute traces of understanding begin to enter my heart. The sacrifices Imam Hussain made on the day of Ashura fourteen hundred years ago were essential for the preservation of Tawhid until the end of time. Were it not for him, all of humankind would have been deprived of the opportunity to know God as He wishes to be known- through the pure, unadulterated truth of His religion. So in a manner of speaking, the preservation of every act of ibadah- including all other supplications, ziyaraat, etc- can be linked back to Ashura and its aftermath. Were it not for Imam Hussain and his blessed family and companions, Islam as we know it would have been fundamentally altered beyond recognition, and worship in all its forms would’ve been irreparably corrupted, rendering Truth inaccessible.

Every time i stop to ponder the meaning of each line, chills run down my spine. Can i genuinely claim to mean any of what i’m saying? Do my actions reflect a commitment to the things i’m asking for, or do they make me a partisan of the very men i’m cursing? Am i at war with Hussain’s enemies, or am i at war with the principles he gave his life for? This consideration makes me waver for a few moments, and a flicker of doubt within my heart insists that this ziyarah is beyond the grasp of an imperfect soul like mine. Yet every time i speak the name Hussain, hopelessness becomes an impossibility. Hussain was the one who liberated the likes of Hur (as), the one who continued to invite his enemies toward redemption until his final moments despite the manifold cruelties they inflicted. Hussain was the one who repeatedly offered Paradise to the ones who broke his heart, who sought to guide even the ones who massacred his loved ones and wounded him beyond recognition. Hussain was and is the finite gateway to the infinitude of Divine mercy, a mortal conduit that reunites a seeker’s sinful heart with the Divine love it most deeply craves.

As the ziyarah ends, i marvel at the paradox of Imam Hussain’s wujud; no one in history has experienced a tragedy like his, yet the utterance of his name fills my heart with an immediate sense of tranquility and bliss. I find this strange, and yet it makes perfect sense; the Nafsul Mutmainna doesn’t just encompass itminaan within himself, he radiates it to every soul imbued with his love. This is why every worldly grief, concern, and pain leaves us the moment we sit in a gathering commemorating him, and why even the most lost souls find such profound solace in his aza- the heart forgets everything the moment it remembers Hussain.

x r

Author’s note: if this piece of writing moves you to recite Ziyarat e Ashura, please send some of the blessings to the soul of my beloved brother, Ammar Zaidi, and as a gift to the Imam of our time- may he be pleased with us ❤

A Love Letter to Masjid e Kufa

When I was younger, I often felt a deep-seated longing to go ‘home’, a place I could never quite explain or point to on a map. I only knew that I had an eternal restlessness within that never seemed answerable. Year after year, it only seemed to grow. The ‘home’ I yearned for was a place that would instantly feel right, where my soul would feel at peace and the permanent disquiet of my heart would vanish.

When I set foot in Masjid e Kufa for the first time, I felt like I had finally found the home I had been searching for my entire life. As I looked down at the gleaming white tiles of the courtyard and up at the darkening sky above me, I felt a familiarity and comfort that I’d never found anywhere before. And for the first time in my life, I felt deeply, unspeakably complete. As our guide told us about the many events that had taken place there, one in particular struck a chord with me: it was the place where the angel Jibrail (as) had taught Prophet Adam (as) how to perform tawbah, and where Allah (swt) had accepted his tawbah. I suddenly understood why this place felt so much like home: it was a symbol of man’s reunion with God; a place of return to Him after ghaflah.

Before entering the masjid itself, we walked through the adjoining home that was once the residence of Amirul Mumineen (as) and his family. As I pondered the greatness of the beings who had once lived and walked there, my heart filled with a depth of awe that left no room for language. I walked through the house with bated breath, my shoulder against the wall as I thought of Lady Ummul Baneen (as) and imagined the holy footsteps of the Imams treading the same narrow hallways I was passing through. My mind could hardly keep pace with the feelings surging in my heart; no amount of reverence or gratitude could ever do justice to where I was. My sense of smallness and impurity made me want to run away and never return, while my sense of love made me want to stop time and remain there forever. When I finally entered the courtyard of the masjid, it felt like time had started again and I was back in the familiar world I knew, albeit an impossibly peaceful corner of it.

One of my favorite memories of Masjid e Kufa- one that still leaves me wandering there in the corridors of my imagination- was the experience of listening to the munajaat of Imam Ali (as). To hear the exquisite words of one of the most beloved lovers of God- in the very place where he made his final sajdah before returning to his Beloved- was so powerful, it was almost too much for me to bear. I felt like my heart would either burst or take flight. As my soul reveled in the beauty of the lover’s conversation with his Beloved, I felt as though an invisible thread transcending centuries was briefly connecting my heart with that of my master.

Though a thousand letters could never do it justice, I pray that every living soul gets to visit Masjid-e Kufa at least once. It is a place of profound spiritual power and an emblem of our shared human history. So many critical chapters of the human narrative unfolded here, and so many more remain to be seen. If I live long enough, I pray that I might be lucky enough to see the grand masjid fulfill the last of its many roles: as the heart of the government of the awaited Imam Mahdi (atf).

x r

Ali and Fatima: A Reflection on the Greatest Love

In all the pages of history, I am convinced that no man has ever loved a woman the way Imam Ali (as) loved Lady Fatima (as). He felt her pain so deeply, he built Bayt al Ahzan, a secluded place for her to grieve for her father. Every year during Fatimiyyah, I weep for the Lion of God, who single-handedly lifted the gate of Khaybar, yet let out a cry of anguish when he saw the broken body of his beloved wife. This is the strength of the strongest of men: to feel the utmost tenderness at the pain of his beloved. My heart aches when I think of the loneliness of Ali after the loss of the only woman who understood him, the one whose soul was a perfect match for his. Every time he returned from battle, the mere sight of Fatima’s face dulled the pain of every wound. Every time the betrayal of his enemies pained his heart, the voice of Fatima brought him endless consolation and relief.

When Imam Ali said that he would not worship a Lord he had not seen, I find myself thinking about the tangible realities that surrounded him like finite reflections of his Lord. Though the spiritual insight of Ali needed no external stimulus, I wonder if every love his heart contained was simply another facet of his awareness of God- especially his love for Fatima. When he looked at her face, did he find himself looking at one of the most luminous, evident signs of God? And when he wept upon losing her, did part of his weeping come from the pain of burying one of the most radiant manifestations of his Creator? Though the absence of Fatima would not have affected his awareness of God any more than the wilting of a flower could affect the reality of spring, how comforting must it have been for Ali’s beloved to be a ray reflecting the beauty of his Beloved. If the Holy Prophet (pbuh) would smell Fatima every time he wished to inhale the scent of Paradise, I can only imagine what realities became manifest in every moment that Ali spent with Fatima. She was the flower from Paradise whose fragrance perfumed his mind, the radiant fountain from which eleven streams of guidance flowed. She was the highest testament to the eloquence, beauty, intellect, and sublime dignity of a woman. Who but Ali could be worthy of such a love? And who but Ali could have the patience to endure the loss of such a love?

As I commemorate his shahadat, I think about the resonance of the greatest love the universe has ever seen. As creation mourns the loss of the lion of God, the heavens will soon be illuminated with the reunion of two souls in perfect harmony with each other.

x r

A Love Letter to Sahifa e Sajjadiya

When I was a precocious teenager with a love of staying up all night to read about philosophy, mysticism, and religion, I would often find myself knee-deep in a diverse sea of concepts and belief systems, and I would wonder: in a world of so many varying perspectives- each with its own share of profundity, wisdom, and spiritual resonance- how could I presume that my faith of choice was the absolute truth? How could I be certain that I wasn’t allowing my personal biases and inclinations to dictate my spiritual beliefs?

At age 15, I fell in love with a book that gave me a deeper certainty of my path than anything I’d ever tasted before: Sahifa e Sajjadiya. From the moment I began to read the beautiful supplications therein, I felt certain that the man who had uttered these words had known God more deeply than any philosopher, scholar, sage, or mystic I had ever come across in all my years of secular study. I had been captivated by the brilliant insights of Plato and Descartes, the mesmerizing poetry of Hafiz, and the timeless wisdom of Lao Tzu, but the eloquent perfection of Imam Zain al Abideen’s connection with God left me breathless. The beauty of his supplications left room in my heart for just one unrelenting, permanent desire: to know God more deeply. I wanted to learn to speak to God as Imam Sajjad (as) did; as though He were the most intimate of all lovers, the most beloved of all friends, the most revered of all confidants. I wanted to trust God more deeply than I trusted myself, to learn to rely on Him in every aspect of my existence.

The first time I learned the meaning of the name ‘Zain al Abideen’ as a child, I felt perplexed; surely every member of the Ahlulbayt (as) could be regarded as ‘the beauty of the worshipers’, what set Imam Sajjad apart? Though this question has been explored by those with infinitely more knowledge and depth than myself, my heart blooms with fresh understanding every time I weep for the masaib of Imam Sajjad in Karbala, Kufa, Shaam, and Medina. The worship of a man who has lived a life of peace and ease is mere worship. The worship of a man who has witnessed the horrors Imam Sajjad endured, remained alive for forty years to grieve the memory of these pains, and yet never wavered in the depth of his love for God, is a degree of worship that must leave even the angels speechless.

Like many, I am moved beyond words every time I think of the immortal utterance of Lady Zainab (as) in the courtyard of Yazid: “I saw nothing but beauty.” But while Lady Zainab was the literal embodiment of this statement, Imam Sajjad was its living, breathing tafsir. The faith of a flagrant sinner like myself is a wave that perpetually ebbs and flows; the slightest grief or disturbance can cause a tempest or a drought. But the God-consciousness of Imam Sajjad was like a steady ocean with no discernible floor; even in the face of circumstances that would shatter the strongest of men, he remained deeply, profoundly in love with God, and no pain in the universe could ever distract him from this love- it was the very essence of his soul.

The 70th surah of the Holy Qur’an, Al Ma’arij, contains a verse that is often noted for its beauty: “so be patient, with a beautiful patience.” When I reflect on this verse, my mind wanders to the life of my beloved fourth Imam. To have ordinary patience is to merely endure pain; to have beautiful patience is to alchemize pain into a boundless, unceasing awareness of God. ‘Beautiful patience’ means that one has learned to view every moment of suffering as yet another reason to love and thank God; to view grief as a means to worship Him in a manner that bespeaks a level of gratitude and trust that is completely immune to circumstance. It is in light of this definition that I understand one of the Imam’s best-known titles: Sayyid us Sajideen.  Sajdah is the ultimate expression of one’s submission to the will of Allah (swt); it is the literal and metaphorical lowering of the self to bear witness to the greatness of God.  Imam Sajjad’s frequent prostrating was not merely a physical act he repeated at every opportunity; it was a testament to the nature of his lifelong relationship with God, wherein he viewed himself as nothing but an ‘abd of Allah, and viewed Allah as the sole Master to whom he owed unlimited gratitude, loyalty, love, and obedience.  

In closing, I’d like to share the most beautiful line from one of my favorite duas in the Sahifa, the Whispered Prayer of the Lovers:

“My God, who can have tasted the sweetness of Your love, then wanted another in place of You?”

x r

Worship

Worship is the slow heartbeat of my footsteps as i wander through a solitary pathway in the heart of the forest, sipping the sweet summer air like sun-warmed nectar.  It’s shutting my eyes to the faults of others and holding a magnifying glass to my own; it’s looking deeply at each person and recalling only the good. It’s granting myself permission to step away from the world’s incessant distractions to explore the unmet dimensions of my soul.

Worship is recognizing myself as both an observer of the infinitely-expanding universe and a mortal, finite reflection of its deepest beauty.  It’s the act of cultivating both profound strength and profound softness within the malleable chambers of my heart. Worship is taming my inner wildness and disciplining my unruly heart; becoming aware of my infinite corruptibility and sedating my insatiable desires.  It’s letting myself revel in the things that delight me while getting lost in the ecstasy of the One who created them; it’s recognizing my missteps and leaning on Him for the courage to return to His path every time i falter.

Worship is every moment in which my thoughts wander back to Him, no matter where i am.  It’s an all-consuming, passionate preoccupation that causes my mind to stray down paths where we can be alone, even in the midst of vast crowds.  Worship is making morning tea for my parents, taking time to see the ones i love even when my heart craves solitude, striking up a conversation even when shyness makes my cheeks redden.  Worship is striving to become a living emblem of His pleasure, His beauty, His mercy, His kindness, His love; to move through life as a vessel of His remembrance and a bridge to His deepest affection; to be a ray of Light that warms as gently as it captivates.  

x r

Autumn Reverie

The last rays of autumn sunshine burrow into my soul, bathing my essence in hues of burnished gold.  My cheeks flush scarlet, warmed by the firefly spark of the setting sun as it slips into the open arms of the horizon. This moment is so brief, yet eternity unfolds within it. What has my soul ever been but a brief conversation You wished to have? Who are You, but a question You created the universe to answer? What is the universe but the golden thread within Your needle, a wild stream of ink dripping from Your pen?

What am i but a living, breathing paradox etched in Your beautiful imagination? With what threads did You weave the strange fabric of my being? When i fluttered like a daydream out of Your unseen consciousness, You left the taste of Your softness in my soul, leaving me permanently hungry for Your beauty.  The eager world tugs at the edges of my veil, but the last dream of my soul is to be found beautiful by You.  I want to be known by You, seen by You, loved by You… i pray to be sought only by eyes that are awake to Your beauty; to be loved only by a heart lost in Your affection.

x r

Confessions of a Lover

Some nights, i feel like the foolish shepherd Prophet Moses (as) scolded in Maulana Rumi’s fable. I am permanently entranced by God’s beauty- it envelops me in the form of starlit September evenings that hum with the impending rumor of fall, moonlit pathways, velvety roses, and late summer sunsets that make my breath hitch in my throat.

I think about Him as i get ready; i twirl my hair around my fingers like a shy girl nervous to see her lover. I put on a beautiful dress, dab a bit of kohl on my lashes, and spray my favorite perfume on my neck, the rich scent of flowers flooding my senses. None of it matters to Him, but i can’t help but beautify myself for the One i love most.

As i slip on my golden anklets, i think about all the things i want to talk to Him about. How the bluejay that stops by from time to time makes me smile as he flutters his stained-glass wings, how i hope it pleases Him when i nurture the hungry animals who come to visit, how i can’t look at anyone or anything without feeling a rush of affection for Him, how my poems seem to write themselves whenever my consciousness loses itself in Him. How i yearn to be a mystic, yet will likely never grow out of my childlike love of laughter and mischief. How the pursuit of knowledge sates my restless mind, yet inheres a thirst whose inability to be quenched marks my mind like a Divine signature. How the loneliness and guilt of Adam (as) strikes at my heart, and how deeply i relate to him; how my heart melts every time i think about the angel that consoled him and kept him company. How i fear being too different to be understood; how i crave love, yet shy away from it for fear of displeasing Him. How i sometimes wish He’d tell me exactly what to do at every juncture, but am always ever so slightly too foolish to heed Him perfectly. How even in moments of childish rebellion, all i want to do is surrender and sink in to the soft pleasure of submitting to Him.

How i hope against hope to win His heart despite my flaws; how the tranquility of His remembrance spills out in the way i move and speak; how i try to dull myself to match the quiet cadence of the world around me, but grow restless to become a living symphony again. How i want my life to resemble a love letter penned solely to Him; how i hope He’ll love me in return and grant me a place near Him in Paradise. How the only mortal love i crave is one that draws me closer to Him. How i know these hopes are audacious and improbable, yet i place my faith not in myself, but in His infinite kindness and generosity.

x r

The Worship of a Child: A Reflection on Laylatul Qadr

On Laylatul Qadr a few years ago, my most powerful moment of spiritual insight came from my friend’s four year old son.

Halfway through the night, I chose a quiet corner so I could begin the lengthy night prayer. My young friend followed and decided he wanted to pray with me. He didn’t know the words, but quietly matched my movements perfectly. After the completion of each set of rakaats, I glanced over and smiled at him, expecting him to be bored or tired, but he stood back up each time with an enthusiasm that put me to shame. The world of a typical four-year-old is full of color, excitement, and an endless array of distractions, but on this night, my young friend stood with me to pray as if it was the greatest delight in the world. I found myself torn between awe of my Creator and awe of this tiny, exuberant child whose single-minded worship left me speechless.

When I reflected on his behavior later, his actions got me thinking about the evolving nature of a believer’s heart, and the innate joy we feel as children every time we connect with the One who made us. As children, we aren’t yet burdened by a sense of unworthiness, hopelessness, or insurmountable fear… There is no worldliness, self-doubt, or negativity within us yet that places an imaginary distance between us and God. Our awareness of Him is inherent, inescapable, unspoken- it lives within us like a foregone conclusion, and we have no separation from it. When we pray to God as children, we haven’t yet learned to think of any reason why He wouldn’t answer our prayers- we speak to Him with the absolute conviction that He will, because all we know is that He is the Giver, and this knowledge is sufficient for us to trust that He will give. We approach worship with the same joy and lightness that we approach playtime. In our purity and innocence, worship simply feels like another form of play for us.

As children, we don’t yet know how to ponder our own worthiness or unworthiness; we are cognizant only of Allah’s greatness. Something it has taken me a lifetime time to grasp is that self-doubt isn’t an egoless state; it’s a state in which the imaginary fears of the ego are actually overtaking us. To be truly egoless, the way a child is, means that we don’t even begin to evaluate our place in the equation; all there is is God and His greatness. If I truly think about it, isn’t this the kind of steady, tranquil worship that enables a man to utter ‘Bismillah’ and walk across a body of water? If we truly want to taste the sweetness of worship, perhaps the secret lies in teaching ourselves to see God with the unblemished reverence of a child.

x r

A Dreamy Winter Night

It’s one of the coldest nights of the year so far, but my restless heart is craving fresh air, and i can’t resist the quiet allure of nighttime.  I step outside and the brisk air electrifies my skin; blood rushes to my cheeks and i feel more vividly awake than i’ve felt in days.  I lock eyes with the moon and feel an instant rush of euphoria, like the bliss of seeing one’s beloved after eons of separation.  As i marvel at its striking golden halo, i absently wonder if it ever misses me as much as i miss it.  There is an eternal, unspoken kinship between the moon and the heart of every poet, as if God breathed us into existence to fall in love with each other.

I walk to the park and the world feels like an ethereal page from the book of my dreams. The bold moonlight makes the night sky appear unusually blue, and the sea of silvery clouds plays tag with stray gleams of moonlight.  I glance at the shadowy expanse of bare-branched trees and feel like i’ve wandered into one of Ivan Aivazovsky’s darker masterpieces; the world around me momentarily feels as small and finite as a painting.  Apart from the occasional rush of headlights along the main road, the world feels strangely empty tonight, as if the moon and i are the last two sentient beings in the universe.  I sit on a bench for a few moments, but a dark, ominous-looking cloud pierces the horizon, and the sky suddenly takes on a melancholy hue that sends a chill down my spine. But as i begin the journey home, the clouds slink away to reveal the hidden stars, now vividly gleaming and brightening the sky again. 

As i look up at the stars, i feel briefly awestruck by the realization that there are over a hundred billion galaxies in the known universe… what a compliment to the human ‘aql that God created such unfathomable complexities for us to ponder and explore; and yet, how humbling to be reminded on such a grand scale how astonishingly minute and fragile we are; how brief and momentary our lives compared to the ancient constellations that loom above us.  The thought of my existential smallness is strangely comforting; it makes me want to curl up in the arms of a distant star and be lulled to sleep by the music of interstellar collisions.

x r

How to Steal a Poet’s Heart

If you want to steal a poet’s heart, touch her soul like a reverberating thread on a sunlit spider’s web, like autumn rushing hungrily into the outstretched arms of winter.  Capture her in your palms like a firefly dancing through the sultry daydreams of summer; catch her on your tongue like the first snowfall in winter. Bathe her in the euphoria of falling stars drunk on the earth’s magnetism, sip her essence like nectar fluent in the dialect of hummingbirds; pursue her like a moth teaching a candle how to burn.  Make her forget the beauty of a thousand sunsets with the tender poetry of your heart; write her letters the moon would trade a hundred starlit sonnets to read.

Her soul is a gentle, forgiving deviation. Be her warmth, her strength, her shelter; be a few moments of steady, unyielding safety amid the cold brutality of the world. She shields herself with the calm, playful forcefield of her heart, but vulnerability defines her; she is a tiny river that dreams of an ocean to hold her when the world’s currents grow strong and her courage grows weak.  But she wasn’t created to crave a shallow, fleeting love that has to be persuaded or won. She was created to bend to a love that has steady, undying roots in His Love; a love that pulls back the curtain of eternity and gives her a glimpse of timelessness. 

x r

Night Walks

Midnight is the time when most lovers leave home in pursuit of secret trysts, but my nights consist of long, dreamy walks to the park; of solitary conversations with the stars and tranquil reflections bathed in autumn moonlight.  As i walk, i feel God’s adoration in the soft, brisk winds that kiss my cheeks, and i glimpse His immaculate beauty in the infinite mirror of the night sky. I think about my life- every perplexing twist and turn, every rise and fall of fate, every moment that brought me to these moments- how different things are from how i once thought they’d be, but how deeply, inexpressibly grateful i feel for every aspect of my life; what indescribable pleasure i feel at the rare experience of existing in this body, in this soul, in this unique window of time.  

On my way home, the wind grows bold and passionate, and fallen leaves begin to dance alongside me.  The rhythm of their movements against the pavement forms a sound that feels strikingly similar to the cadence of dhikrallah, as if the leaves are engaging in their own imperceptible form of tasbih.  The gleaming stars twinkle in unison with the leaves, and my heart is moved endlessly by this thought: all of creation is a vast, infinitely complex symphony perpetually singing His praises.  Everything is alive with its own trace of the Divine heartbeat; every effect burns with immortal yearning to reunite with the Cause.

Every conversation i have with anyone lately tends to carry a note of deep yearning or dissatisfaction; there’s always a problem each person is chipping away at, an unresolved issue, or an unanswered question, and my own heart is no different- to be alive is to be left longing for something; be it an answer, a person, a feeling, or an experience. But on these tranquil autumn nights, i feel a hint of gratitude even for my longings, because i see how clearly each one leads back to Him; how everything my heart has ever wanted is, in its deepest essence, an expression of yearning for Him.  I ask Him to refine my desires and grant me the ones that will bring me closer to Him; to grant me love that immerses me more deeply in His love, to grant me bliss that sweetens my worship.

x r

Experiential Blisses

I love the way the light falls softly against the living room furniture at the apex of the day. I love the taste of oranges that are juicier than expected, of strawberries that are sweeter than they need to be, of tea on quiet mornings with just the right ratio of milk and sugar. I love the music of early morning birdsongs, the feeling of slipping on a soft t-shirt after a hot shower, the way my hair feels when it falls in a rush of silk against my neck, the intoxicating scent of raspberry perfume permeating cold winter air. I love the rare satisfaction of beautiful words that grip your heart and leave fingerprints on your mind, stoking the soft flame of inspiration that lives within a nameless part of you. I love the echo of ink-stained thoughts and sleepless nights, the scent of fresh paper that dreams of being touched by poetry.  

I love the meditative beauty of a warm gaze that fills with wonder as it meets yours. I love the quiet fire of eyes that linger on the sky as if it is the only attempt that God has ever made at creating beauty. I love the subtle hint of joy that blooms on a face that has been longing to see yours; the mutual relief of being in the same room as someone who laughs at the same things you do; the irresistible pull of minds that follow the same relentless pathways of inquiry. I love the fire of unasked questions and the smoke of satisfying answers; the paper trail left by mysteries yearning to be solved. I love the safe daydream of steady love that plays no games and bares itself like moonlight. I love cards that are dropped on the table instead of kept close to the chest, the tenderness of voices that drip with palpable longing, the eagerness of restless souls in search of home.

x r

On Love and Spiritual Ascension

Love for other human beings is a sacred element of spiritual ascension, because in its deepest essence, love forms the bedrock of both humility and mindfulness.  When you begin to perceive the inner and outer beauty in every human being, it becomes impossible to think of your own beauty as a separate or significant reality; you simply see it as the same whisper of Divinity that you find within every face and heart you look at.  When you learn to intuit the difficulties every person might be quietly struggling with, your appreciation for every trace of goodness in others deepens, and every encounter with a kind or generous person feels like a miracle. Your alignment with Divine mercy deepens, because the mercy you intrinsically feel toward others increases.

In moments of reflection on the goodness within others, awareness of the self fades away, and the only time you remember yourself is when others express their love for you- and yet even in these moments, you know that the goodness they love you for is not a possession or creation of your own doing, but a gift momentarily breathed into you by God; a consequence of Him concealing your endless shortcomings by veiling them with His infinite beauty.

A major spiritual challenge is to cultivate this awareness without becoming consumed by it, because any awareness that begins to feel like an entity in itself has the potential to become a distraction from the Beloved. In the beginning stages, there’s a very simple, universally acknowledged practice that helps in this regard: conditioning oneself to live as mindfully and presently as possible; consciously striving to take in each day with total reverence and complete presence, the way a child does. To permit yourself to be simply, thoroughly human; to freely, openly delight in the presence of others the way our beloved Prophet (pbuh) did, and to rejoice in the brief moments and experiences you have with them. Such mindfulness disrupts the fixations of the ego, freeing us to experience the true glory of each moment and the potential for gratitude, growth, pleasure, and insight held therein. I imagine this is why falling in love has the potential to be such a spiritually transformative experience: love has a way of taking people out of their own minds by giving them the incentive to become fully immersed in the present moment, because they don’t want to miss a single second of immersion with the beloved.  

The mindfulness of love thus prepares the human soul to experience worship as a whole more deeply; the more accustomed we are to being mindfully immersed in the present, the less we lose ourselves in worrying about the future or grieving about the past. And the less our minds ricochet between egoic concern for past and future, the better able we are to show up and meet God in the present. Love frees us to meet Him in that liminal, ungraspable space that exists beyond concrete points of time, and in those precious, delineated moments throughout the day when He has asked us for our undivided attention.

x r

A Midnight Misadventure

It’s exactly 12 am when we pull up to the empty parking lot overlooking the lake.  My friend nervously tells me that we shouldn’t be here, and the small sign announces that the park closed 2 hours ago- so technically, she’s not wrong.  I flash her a mischievous grin, put my car in park, and tell her i want to go down to the water for a moment.  She tries to dissuade me by pointing out that it’s dark, potentially dangerous, probably illegal, and we could get attacked by coyotes, but my intuition tells me it’ll be fine (besides, coyotes are notoriously shy). I’m secretly starving for adventure, and this feels like the perfect dose.

She can tell by the look in my eyes that i’m not going to back down, so she sighs and says she’ll wait by the car.  She stands in the distance and watches as i wander down the dark hillside flanked by forest on both sides.  As i walk, i feel like i’m descending into a dark, hazy dream.  I gradually make my way down to the water’s edge and immediately feel as if i’ve been transported to another world.  The sky is darker here, the stars more brilliant, and the water is just faintly illuminated by a whisper of moonlight.  The silhouette of trees on the small tracts of land surrounding the lake look poetically eerie.  I glance back at the moon as it hovers atop the dark, shadowy trees and am left breathless at how enchanting it all looks.  Not everything has to be sunlit and cheery in order to be beautiful; there is as much beauty to be found in darkness as there is in light, the dark simply requires a bit more courage and patience to navigate.

I stand for a few moments looking out at the water, wishing i could put down a blanket, suspend time, and lie beneath the stars for a few hours.  Small indulgences like this feel safe, almost sacred.  I touch the water and listen to its soft murmur, immediately feeling one with it; i’m highly tempted to jump in and go for a midnight swim.  I wish i could stay here all night- getting lost in conversation with the water and the stars and the hidden depths of my own heart- but i’m acutely aware that i’m probably breaking the law right now, so i tear myself away and head back to my friend, who seems relieved that i’ve returned to her in one piece.

After we hop back in the car, she asks if i want to see something pretty, and i excitedly agree.  On our way to the mysterious location, we pass by a neighborhood with the word “Serendipity” in it, and i tell her about how i’ve always loved that word.  She then drives us out to a bridge overlooking the lake.  My excitement builds as we get there, and i tell her there’s a bridge i’m absolutely in love with that looks similar to this one- she says it’s probably the same one, and i think she might be right.  If this is the bridge i’m thinking of, i magically end up here a few times a year when my route happens to bring me this way, and each time is an absolutely delightful experience.  I never quite remember how to get here, so i leave it up to fate.  I’ve watched the sun set over the lake a few times here, and each time, the surreal beauty of the scenery overwhelms me, leaving a lasting imprint on my heart. We can’t see much at this hour, but the small beams of light that hit the water’s surface please me nonetheless.  As we turn around and head back toward her house, i marvel at the sheer serendipity of the entire night.

x r

The Secret DNA of Languages

Urdu: the lingering scent of rosewater on bare skin, the gleam of silver anklets on a moonlit night, the music of glass bangles falling against each other, the soft blush elicited by a lover’s gaze, kohl-lined eyes full of passion and warmth, the pleasurable burn of spices at the back of one’s throat, the quiet magnetism of the moon persuading the tides to dance, a steady pair of arms wrapped around one’s waist, love letters slipped into secret hiding places, the alluring perfume of jasmines carried by spring breezes, the sensation of reveling in the sweetness of a loved one’s smile, the bliss of dancing in the rain at the peak of summer, the lush decadence of night-blooming flowers, the poetic innocence of daydreams, the otherworldly cadence of a besotted qawwal, the ecstasy of sinking into a bed both firm and soft, the warm laughter of loved ones gathered for afternoon tea, the sensation of biting into a ripe mango and feeling the juice run down one’s chin, a translucent veil draped over a cascade of dark hair

Farsi: the watchful majesty of a king surveying his kingdom, sugar cubes melting on a feverish tongue, the intoxicating sweetness of ripe cherries in spring, the delicate symphony of clinking tea glasses, the sweetness of melted butter on fluffy grains of rice, the untraceable warmth of moonlight, a sunlit garden full of decadent roses, the passionate reunion of separated lovers, the sensation of shutting one’s eyes and listening to a tranquil birdsong, the elegant symmetry of a dancer’s arched back, a long pleasant walk with no need for destination, stray moments of reflection amid softly falling rain, the quiet ecstasy of prayers whispered into the ear of God, the dreamy feeling of leaving one’s body and transcending to a higher realm, the earthy fragrance of dried saffron, smooth turquoise tiles warmed by the midday sun, the feeling of lying awake at night and conversing with the stars, the delicate shelter of a soft black veil

Arabic: the guttural roar of a lion on the threshold of victory, the heady scent of honey dripping from one’s fingertips, the unsheathed brilliance of the full moon, heartfelt laughter that reaches one’s eyes, the warmth of a lost lover’s eager embrace, a pair of eyes deep enough to get lost in, the gleam of water droplets on fresh mint leaves, the warm fragrance of freshly baked pita bread, the feeling of returning home after a long journey and falling into a pair of familiar arms, the playful dance of bold glances between strangers, the tension of a drawn bowstring, finding shelter in the eye of a hurricane, the raucous laughter of running children, the smoky perfume of black tea and melted sugar, a few stray notes of an ancient love song, the rich scent of tobacco on a cold winter night, the valiant experience of smiling through one’s tears, the salty sweetness of olives soaked in brine, the tender comfort of a mother’s prayer, wild horses running across sun-kissed sand dunes

x r

My Kryptonite

I’ve spent my life in pursuit of dazzling intellectual complexities and wondrous fragments of enlightenment, philosophy, and truth, but these aren’t the things i hunger for when i cross paths with other people. What captivates me most in others is the preservation of their fundamental tenderness; of their childlike trust and pure, unhindered curiosity; of their capacity to laugh, connect, inquire, and seek.

The beauty that borders on ecstasy to me is the aliveness of a person’s sense of vulnerability, empathy, and their willingness to pursue and consume that which moves them into deeper states of authenticity and inner knowing.  I’m not captivated by intellect, beauty, wealth, or power… i’m endlessly enamored by courage, compassion, and the depth of a person’s ever-expanding inwardness. I don’t admire qualities that make someone appear superhuman or holier-than-thou; i relish the qualities that make them deeply, unapologetically human.  I have never seen anything more mesmerizing than a soul touched by unbridled passion and fearless sincerity.

x r

The Secret of Ishq

Becoming an ‘ashiq was never a conscious choice for me… my fate was sealed the very first time i laid eyes on the ocean as a child, the beauty of the waves calling out to me with the potency of a siren. That exquisite sight enthralled me so deeply, it inspired my first lines of poetry.  How could i not have fallen madly in love with the One who created it, whose presence lingered as palpably near the waves as the steady shore that tamed them?

Forgive me if my simple words hold no weight, or if my foolishness reveals me as ignorant. I didn’t come to the threshold of ‘ishq through the elegant use of reason, or the steady, systematic buildup of eloquent philosophical arguments, or by the intrinsic worthiness of a saint. He pulled me here by the reluctant strings of my rebellious heart; He drew me here through the meandering lines of my poetry; through the secrets He imparted into the deepest recesses of my soul, staining my depths with the permanence of wine.  He hid within the empty spaces between each letter, between every inhale and exhale of my breath, between the timid, fluttering heartbeats within my chest.

Every time i tried to hide, He lured me back to Him with the seductive artistry of the stars on a clear winter night, the soft beauty of an autumn sunrise, the rush of rose-scented breezes at the climax of spring… He has enraptured my heart so thoroughly, my flawed, sinful senses have never beheld a beautiful thing without experiencing Him.  Every day, i feel like a small child stumbling through the rocky pastures of life- but no matter how far i wander, He catches my wayward soul in His eternally outstretched hands, claiming me for Himself.  And in those moments, awash in the bliss of reunion, i remember no reality but His Love and every beautiful emanation of it. I briefly forget the myth of my self, and fall in love once again with the reality of Him.

The rationalists contend that God only favors the worthy, and i wouldn’t dare disagree with them, but my own life poses a perplexing counterargument. I am inescapably mortal, deeply human, and endlessly erring- i have never been worthy, and yet, the Most Generous and Most Compassionate of all lovers has never deemed me unworthy.  God chooses me again and again despite my infinity of shortcomings, and i’m thus inclined to believe that He chooses everyone; it is we who reject Him, who drown out His voice with our arrogance, cruelty, sin, and disdain; we who glance past His love in our recurring preoccupation with reason and self-importance. In a field beyond these illusions, He waits for us with the patient tenderness of a devoted lover, and laughs when we inevitably come back to Him, world-weary and confused.

This is the hidden paradox that intoxicates every ‘ashiq, the flavor of the wine that drives His lovers mad with yearning, the beauty that leaves every poet breathless… every time we believe we’ve witnessed the apex of His mercy, He unveils a new horizon drenched in ever-deepening hues of Love.  We give Him a thousand reasons to turn us away and find us irredeemable, but He refuses to see us as ungenerously as we see ourselves.  Could any other form of love be so endlessly kind and patient? How could i not overflow with affection, hope, and love, when my Beloved is so tender in the way He handles me? Yet how could i not be aflood with shyness, shame, and fear, when i remember how heedless i’ve been toward the One i love most?

x r

The Conversation

It’s a conversation you find yourself having, like clockwork, again and again. Someone shares the inner radiance of their heart with you, and you listen closely, quietly marveling at the way human beings resemble the unfolding sunrise every time they open up. Every shred of truth, each confession of longing, pain, ecstasy, and fear, seems to carry its own hue, and you watch with childlike wonder as you behold the unique symphony of colors that comprises each person’s inner world.

But as your eyes curiously unravel the secrets tucked away in theirs, a flicker of uncertainty overtakes them, the spell breaks for a moment, and they say: “what about you?”

And you never know what to say. You can happily, readily dive into the deepest waters of another person’s soul, but you’ve never quite mastered the art of inviting them into yours. Where would you take them? To the lush meadows where your daydreams of a peaceful, harmonious world live, or to the eye of the storm that harbors your wildest, most hidden impulses and desires? Should you bring them into the lively fire of your passions, or should you invite them into the calm, steady sea of your deepest contemplations? How do you convey that all of these seemingly contradictory worlds form the reality of who you are? And if you showed them, would they stay?

You’re never sure, so you smile and look away. They sense the distance that exists between you and the world, but only you know deeply it sometimes wounds you. It exists as a secret between you and God, the insurmountable conclusion of who you are. But you’re learning to embrace it, because you finally understand: had He made you any simpler, maybe you wouldn’t have sought Him so deeply. Maybe making you different was God’s way of creating a standing invitation for Himself within your heart; a space that only He could fill.

x r

A Camping Reverie

As i look up at the sunlight pouring softly through the branches of the trees overhead, i smile and remember that the Japanese have a word for this phenomenon; they call it ‘komorebi’.  My friend and i are lying on a tree swing, quietly musing about life while periodically making each other burst into fits of laughter, and the world disappears for a while.  If Paradise is anything like the pleasure of a calm spring day spent with someone you love, i really hope i get to see it someday.

I spend most of Saturday letting my inner child run free, both literally and metaphorically.  I try to reign myself in, but i’m totally lost in the joy of being in my element; i want to tire my body out until my muscles ache from the pleasure of exertion.  As an overthinker whose brain never rests, physical activity holds more weight for me than it might for other people- i find it to be an almost meditative experience, allowing me to slip out of my overactive consciousness and into a tranquil flow state, where the instincts of my body overrule the chaos of my mind.  On a simple human level, being outdoors and playing sports evokes blissful childhood memories of running around with my brothers, our young hearts awash in excitement.

The highlight of the day for me is the shooting range: i’m generally a pacifist, but there’s a strange pleasure in wielding a tool of destruction when the use of it feels like an artform in itself.  It takes me a while to remember how to do it, but i gradually find my rhythm: i cock the gun, take aim, and press the barrel against my cheek, resting the end against my shoulderblade.  I take a deep breath, bite my lip, and pull the trigger. I feel a rush of satisfaction each time i hear the telltale clink of the pellets against the target.  The man running the range is a friendly old cowboy who regales us with sweet stories of teaching his kids how to shoot and ride horses.  He praises my shooting like a proud father and mentions various targets no one has hit yet- i immediately go after each one, and he admits that he likes using these challenges to motivate people like me.  One of my new friends refers to me as “a beauty and a danger”, and i jokingly tell her that i want that written on my grave… people often treat me like a fragile, mindless wallflower; i love being seen as dynamic and powerful.

We move on to archery next. As i nock each arrow and draw it back against the bow, i feel a rush of primordial nostalgia, as if my blood is surging with the memories of warrior women in my bloodline.  I find that the key to excelling in archery is much the same as shooting; to silence the flow of your thoughts until only consciousness of the target remains, and your body and the weapon become one in their singular pursuit of the target.  As a diehard animal lover, i despise the notion of hunting for sport, but i can understand why people enjoy it: perfect harmony between mind and body is a rare state to be in, and it results in a quiet, fulfilling rush of ecstasy that reaches its peak when the target is struck.

I join a group of girls for a quick game of volleyball as the sun goes down, and i throw myself into it with full force and passion.  I end up badly bruising the back of my hand after a few intense volleys, but the pain is worth it- playing volleyball in slightly cold weather is a 10/10 experience.  The night ends with a beautiful campfire, which always makes me think about the early days of human civilization and the ways of our ancestors; of the timeless magic of gathering around a fire and exchanging stories, experiences, wisdoms, and epiphanies.  My wildness quickly turns to shyness as everyone gathers around, but i have some fascinating discussions that set my mind afire with perplexity.  If i could end every night with a deep conversation about all the questions that keep me up at night, i think this world would feel akin to Paradise.

As my friend and i head home, i feel seeds of happiness and renewal taking root in my heart, and i hope the spring rains will bring them to bloom.  Before i fall asleep, i revisit the question of when creation began, and i experience a simplistic version of ibn Sina’s grand epiphany: God and the first creation can be co-eternal, because eternity is not inherently a property that can solely be ascribed to Divinity… even if the Giver and the first recipient are both without beginning, the point remains that the recipient will always be contingent, and the Giver will always be necessary.

x r

A Storm in Late Spring

The soft rumbling of thunder outside my window gently awakens my drowsy mind, compelling me to step outside for a bit to take in the beauty of the early morning storm.  The sky is sheathed in a soft pallor of dove gray, and a formidable gathering of coal-colored clouds shrouds the horizon.  A faint, gentle breeze kisses my face as i watch tiny, almost imperceptible drops of rain drift lazily to the earth below.  

Every so often, the ethereal glow of lightning in the distance illuminates the trees, and i quietly experience the same feeling that strikes me every time i watch lightning: God’s artistry is truly beyond the reaches of mortal imagination.  Lightning is such an audaciously, unnecessarily beautiful phenomenon.  As is the sky itself, and the rain, and the sound of the rain as it falls, and the music of the thunder as it roars… All of it is marvelous beyond expression.  As if the inherent magic of the sky wasn’t mesmerizing enough, God gives us these additional glimpses into His majesty that stir my heart into a state of permanent, ceaseless captivation.  

As the storm clears, the birds seem to echo my thoughts: they burst into enthusiastic songs in various pitches and dialects, seemingly celebrating the beauty of the Creator in their own unique languages.  I smile and thank Him for the rare privilege of earthly life, for the senses with which i perceive His blessings, and for the never-ending array of wonders that stoke the fires of my awestruck heart.

x r

Traces of God

Despite the world’s occasional heaviness, you still daydream about the ethereal beauty of the sunlit ocean, the sweet cadence of its murmuring music drifting through the hallways of your soul.  You still ponder the mystifying shyness of the moon and her nightly conversations with the stars, reclining on her throne as she lends her radiant glow to your half-shut eyes.  You still marvel at the way the rising sun hypnotizes you with its mellifluous symphonies of color, rising and falling with an elegant constancy that makes your soul feel alive.  And the rhythmic dance of your own heart, the rushing of blood to your cheeks in the heat of awe and passion, still enraptures you despite its subliminal ache.

Every trace of God will outlive you; every sign that reminds you of Him will remain long after your fragile body has turned to dust.  You feel so small and delicate in that knowledge sometimes; every hope, ambition, and dream within you feels so momentary and unimportant.  But you don’t grieve anymore about the brevity of it all.  You fear the insufficiency of your deeds, but you are too enamored by His greatness to be saddened by the river of time and the inevitability of being swallowed by its currents.  And no matter how fleeting the hours might be, you cherish this brief miracle of a life that carries you to your Beloved.  You have vowed to relish every moment with the lifelust of a poet, to drink in every instance of beauty with the intoxication of a dervish, but you don’t fear the possibility of ending.

Like each successive rising of the sleeping sun, you understand that every ending conceals a radiant new beginning.  To die is to become more deeply alive; to shut one’s eyes here is to open them in a realm where veils have fallen, secrets have shed their cloaks, and the Truth that once sang to you from within the atoms of every created being begs to be uncovered.  Until God decrees the beginning of the next great journey, your spirit sings with the knowledge that there are still sunrises you have yet to see, still moments written for you that have yet to leave you breathless, still reflections of God your eyes have yet to behold.

x r

Divine Love Letters

We pass through this world with the soft transience of a reverie; celestial daydreams wandering through the infinite hallways of Divine consciousness. In our smallness, we have a perpetual yearning to be found, to be reunited with the Infinite so as to escape our finiteness. I am ignorant, foolish, weak, and ephemeral, but He makes me fall in love with the worst of my weaknesses, because they lead me endlessly to Him. In every sip of bitterness i’ve tasted, i’ve been met with His sweetness; in every difficulty i’ve faced, i’ve been warmed by the promise of His nearness. How could i ever complain, when every page of my existence has borne the signature of His tenderness?

It often strikes me that every human soul is like a living, breathing love letter addressed to God. Our actions and deeds become lines that convey either the gravity of our adoration for Him, or reveal the depth of our indifference and neglect.  The highest proof of our affection for Him lies in the lines that capture our love for others; for the moments we breathe beauty, life, and hope into the rest of creation, for the moments we consciously strive to be patient, loving, and compassionate.

When i re-read the letter of my soul, i sometimes worry about how many lines i need to cross out and atone for; how clumsy my penmanship has been; how ill-fitting and insufficient my words feel in light of the One i am writing to.  Some days, i wish i could erase everything i’ve ever written and start completely anew.  But maybe this is what tawbah is; what moments of repentance, reconciliation, and reunion are truly about- turning one’s charred, ink-stained soul into a fresh piece of paper; writing Love again and again in the purified dialect of a heart softened by repentance.  

x r

Night Drives

There’s a road I like to drive down on nights when my mind is too full and my heart is too restless.  The moon watches me as I pursue my nightly escapes, her soft light hanging above me like a sentient guardian.  Out of the corner of my eye, I meet the moon’s gaze and marvel at her ever-changing beauty.  Further and further I go, until I hang left at my favorite street and begin the ascent along the quiet, winding road where no one ever seems to venture.  It’s flanked by wildflower fields and trees on one side, and remote farm houses on the other, and above me looms the most beautiful, unobstructed view of the night sky. 

In these moments, I ask aloud my questions to God, and I sometimes feel His answers in the passionate pulse of the stars. My poems often write themselves when I come here, stray verses weaving through the fabric of my imagination like sentient thread.  The rhythmic heartbeat of my car on the smooth country road, paired with the bewitching beauty of the moonlit sky, takes me to a state of pure captivation night after night.  In these moments, I remember so clearly that my heart’s deepest, truest needs can always be answered by wandering into the heart of nature and its perplexing mysteries.  God’s voice is an ever-living current running through every beautiful aspect of His creation, and His signs feel endlessly vivid on the quiet nights I go out in search of Him.  He is so generous in the light He offers to anyone who seeks Him.

x r

When Laughter Becomes Worship

It’s a sacred act of worship to stand in the night for prayer, but it’s an act of sacred audacity to turn playfulness into worship; to linger beneath the stars until each of your heartbeats becomes its own dhikr- trusting that the depth of your remembrance of Him will become witr in His eyes tonight.  This substitution shouldn’t be made too often, but on nights when the stars gleam enticingly and the beauty of the moon ensnares the heart in such a way that verses of intoxication spill from the Lover’s pen, one’s inner child should be permitted to express its own pure dialect of worship. 

We know that God loves our reverence, but we forget that He also loves our audacity- this is something i didn’t understand until this year. I might not have even considered it until i read Mulla Fayd’s explanation of the story of Barkh; it opened doors inside my heart that i’m still afraid to step through, but i’ve been captivated all year. The story still rings through my mind all the time- God listened to Barkh over the pleas of 70,000 believers, and when Musa (as) asked God why, He said it was because Barkh made Him laugh three times a day.

God loves our submission and our obedience- these are the most critical prerequisites of Love- but He also loves it when we trust Him, when we let our guard down around Him, when we speak to Him more intimately and playfully than we would with anyone else. He loves when we tell Him that we’re tired but couldn’t resist staying up all night or waking up early to talk to Him; He loves it when we seek Him the way we’d seek a lost lover in a crowded room… He loves it when we boldly make demands of Him, or when we complain when He keeps us waiting. He loves our irreverent hunger, our moodiness, our confusion and perplexity and lostness. He loves our quiet, tender vulnerability, and the soft humility of our heartache. He wants to be the hand that soothes our tensed brows, the cool breeze that kisses our worried foreheads, the warm embrace that feels safe, unendingly safe. He wants to be the understanding ear that every secret can be whispered into, no matter how strange or shocking.

And sometimes, what He wants is for us to make Him laugh. And to know that this, too, is a sublime act of worship.

x r

5 Years

1.31.21

It’s been 5 years.  5 years of missing the uninhibited grin that would light up your entire face and make you look 10 again; the boyish laughter that was half-howl, half chuckle; the wild, exuberant yelling and jumping that followed every victory.  5 years of missing the unguarded warmth in your eyes that radiated freely for everyone, eyes that had a knack for spotting the exact person most in need of that warmth, eyes that searched until they found beauty in every person they beheld.  5 years of searching peoples’ faces for a trace of the magic I could only find in yours.  5 years of waiting to hear your key turn in the lock, the squeak of your shoes on the tile, the tell-tale thud of your basketball, the unmistakable rev of your monstrous engine.  5 years of aching for the sight of your silhouette against my doorframe.  5 years of hanging onto memories of baseball in the backyard, basketball in the driveway, Olympics in the living room, rollerblading in the kitchen.  5 years of sleepless nights and foggy mornings.  5 years of bittersweet dreams that bring you back, followed by the terror of waking up and realizing you’re gone again.  5 years of bargaining with God, mentally rewriting the laws of space and time, searching for an argument to bring you back to life.

But also: 5 years of falling back in love with life, the way you did after every setback.  5 years of laughing through my tears as I marvel at the impossible luck of having had a brother like you.  5 years of watering seeds of resilience and watching them bloom amid unrelenting storms.  5 years of learning and relearning new definitions of strength; of learning to paint silver linings immune to shadows.  5 years of alchemizing my grief into an ocean of boundless joy.  5 years of following the sunnah of Ya’qub and pondering the patience of Yusuf.  5 years of thanking God for loving you so much, He called you back before the world could leave its fingerprints on your beautiful soul.  5 years of overcoming my selfish desire to hold on, of learning that the deepest act of love is letting go and trusting in the reunion that lies ahead.   5 years of coming to understand “inna lillahe wa inna ilayhe raja’oon” as God’s greatest blessing, His sweetest promise, His deepest assurance that everything will be okay in the end; for how could it not be if He is both our origin and our destination? 5 years of sorrow melting into gratitude that you’re Home now; that you’re alive in ways I haven’t been yet, and that we’ll be together again someday, laughing at the myth of separation.

x r

The Audacity of Zakariya: A Reflection on Human Vulnerability & the Art of Dua

بِسْمِ ٱللَّٰهِ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ

While engaging in a bit of Qur’anic reflection some time ago, I was struck by the unique tenderness of a story that melts my heart and deepens my affection for Allah (swt) every time I think about it. This story finds us at the beginning of Surah Maryam- it’s the tale of Prophet Zakariya (as) and the miraculous birth of Yahya (as). When I was younger, I would often rush past this part of Surah Maryam without much reflection, but I recently found myself awash in awe when I realized how profoundly full of love, tenderness, and patience the dialogue between Prophet Zakariya (as) and God is.

In the fourth verse of Surah Maryam, Zakariya (as) begins with a humbly expressed dua to God, in which he asks God to grant him a child despite his old age. The first line Zakariya utters in his dua is immediately disarming in its humility: he speaks of the brittleness of his bones and the whiteness of his hair- an impassioned expression of vulnerability that brings to mind one of the most beautiful lines in Dua Kumayl. Many of the duas of our Prophets and Imams (as) contain similar admissions of physical weakness and vulnerability, and these lines are always strikingly visceral in nature. In the warrior-centric cultures of antiquity, nothing was likely seen as a greater measure of a man’s value than his physical strength. For a man in such an environment to defy this standard and humble himself- while openly highlighting his physical weaknesses- is a deeply compelling, powerful gesture.

Immediately after acknowledging his physical limitations, Zakariya concludes his dua by uttering a line that I find both heart-wrenchingly beautiful and clever: “I have never been disappointed in my prayer to You” (19:4; this statement beautifully parallels a similar line uttered by Prophet Ibrahim (as) in verse 47). One can tell by the sincerity of Zakariya’s tone that this isn’t a calculated utterance, but it happens to be a brilliantly constructed statement, as if inspired by God Himself. Just as Barkh, during the time of Prophet Musa (as), suggested that it would be unbecoming of God’s greatness not to grant the Israelites water, Zakariya points out that God has always satisfied him in every dua- as if hinting that it would only make sense for God to continue meeting that high standard. A simpler reading of this statement might be that it simply speaks to the magnitude of Zakariya’s high opinion of God. When complimenting someone, praising them for a single action once is a commonplace gesture, but praising them for consistently embodying a quality (in this case, God’s responsiveness) reveals a much deeper level of intimacy, where the one doing the praising signifies that they have noticed and appreciated every instance of a virtue. The line also speaks to the depth of Zakariya’s trust in God. For Zakariya to make a seemingly impossible dua- while acknowledging God’s generosity in the very same breath- indicates that his trust in God’s generosity is literally boundless, as if he places more confidence in God’s will than in the limitations of the material world (or does he? 🤨 we’ll examine this part next.)

After Zakariya concludes his heartfelt dua, the angels respond in the affirmative, and give him the good news: his dua will be answered with the birth of a blessed son named Yahya (19:7). Now comes the part that secretly made me laugh the first time I tried to picture it: in this moment, any ordinary person in Zakariya’s shoes would’ve likely fallen to the floor in gratitude, performed two rakaat of shukr, and wept tears of joy at having their biggest dua answered, then ended the conversation there- for if God is literally confirming that your dua will be granted, what more is there to say? Instead, Zakariya’s immediate response is beautifully human: he perplexedly asks God how such a thing could happen (19:8), considering his wife’s barrenness and his old age (note: as Allamah Tabatabai points out in al Mizan, Zakariya’s words should not be read as an indication of doubt, but might better be understood as an expression of astonishment, or a desire for clarification). If you really want to fall in love with God, pause for a moment and imagine this scenario playing out amongst ordinary human beings: imagine that a beggar comes to your door, pleading for something as if his life depends on it. Imagine that you immediately respond by assuring that you’ll grant him that thing- but instead of thanking you, he poses a counter-argument about why it doesn’t seem logically plausible for you to grant his request. Many mortal beings would likely become frustrated and rethink their generosity, but here we witness God’s kindness in all its unsheathed glory- instead of scolding Zakariya, God validates his concern and responds to it graciously, assuring him that his dua will indeed be granted, as it is easy for God to grant it (19:9).

God concludes His response by gently reminding Zakariya of his smallness- pointing out that Zakariya was nothing before God created him- yet even this reminder reads like an objective statement of fact; it contains no evident hint of anger or displeasure. It’s also a beautiful instance of human logic being met with Divine logic- Zakariya’s question hints at the evident limitations posed by the laws of nature, and God responds by reminding him that the laws of nature don’t apply to His will. Given the gentleness of God’s response to Zakariya, my subjective human impression is that it almost seems as if the openly expressed surprise of Zakariya is more beloved to God than the conventional gratitude of a normal human being. I don’t have the knowledge or authority to make a definitive assertion about why this might be the case, but I can’t help but think back to the story of Barkh and Musa (as), and the way the sincerity and informality of Barkh’s manner of speaking to God was beloved to Him in a way that astonished even the lofty consciousness of Musa. In addition to their unwavering obedience of God’s laws, a common thread between both men is how intimately and vulnerably they spoke to God- without pretension, without formality or inhibition; with an almost childlike innocence that reflected the true reality of what they were genuinely thinking and feeling. This manner of rawness bespeaks absolute trust and honesty with the Beloved; it is only after the cultivation of true intimacy that a lover can let his or her guard down so absolutely.

God’s lenient reply is then followed by even more boldness on the part of Zakariya- instead of ending the conversation by thanking God for both the blessing and the reassurance, Zakariya goes one step further and asks God for a sign (19:10). And beautifully, God once again affirms his request, immediately disclosing what the sign will be. This is the part of their dialogue that I find especially mesmerizing, because Zakariya’s repetitive asking evokes such a departure from the way we are typically conditioned to approach God. We are often raised to speak to God with the utmost fear and formality, and to make requests of Him sparingly, as if we subconsciously believe that we are doing Him a disservice or are inconveniencing Him by asking Him to grant us what we want. What Zakariya understood was something many of us hesitate to accept: it is in the nature of the Most Generous Giver to love giving; His grace is eternally seeking a recipient, even more than the recipient is seeking His grace.

Though the dialogue between God and Zakariya is clearly not one of equals- as the Necessary Being elegantly reminds the contingent being of his contingency in the previous verse- it is certainly and undeniably encased in mutual tenderness and love. God responds to Zakariya’s dua lovingly, responds to his incredulity lovingly, and responds to his request for a sign lovingly, making it abundantly clear how much it pleases Him to please the ones He loves. This is the very reality that was highlighted by Lady Maryam (as) in 3:37, which was the initial catalyst that inspired Zakariya to make his dua. God’s sweetness to Zakariya is at once intoxicating and awe-inspiring- how could even the most wayward sinner not retain hope in such a kind and patient Creator?

Of course, the story doesn’t end there. What Zakariya does immediately after this conversation is highly significant, because it reveals to us one of the many reasons God loves him so deeply. After being guaranteed the fulfillment of his deepest wish, Zakariya’s first act is to go to his people and encourage them to glorify God morning and night (19:11). Zakariya could have simply kept his appreciation of God to himself; he could have privately engaged in adhkar and tasbih to thank God, and left it at that. Instead, he did what every true lover does- he encouraged widespread praise and worship of his Beloved, wanting to share the blessing of his Beloved’s love with everyone around him. In this moment, I am reminded of Nizami’s Majnun and the openness of his love for Layla- instead of loving Layla from the quiet privacy of his room, Majnun made the entire world a temple of his love for her, wanting every heart to awaken to the beauty of Layla. Not unlike Majnun, Zakariya’s intoxicated heart isn’t satisfied with confining God’s beauty within its own chambers- the grateful lover immediately rushes to draw other hearts toward Him, too.

This final act of Zakariya also signifies a beautiful contrast between the beginning and ending of this story- when Zakariya first makes his request, verse 3 of Surah Maryam notes that he calls out to God in secret. Zakariya’s preference for secrecy in the beginning reminds me of the beautiful prophetic etiquette expressed by Prophet Yaqub (as) in verse 86 of Surah Yusuf; God’s most intimate lovers reserve the expression of their anguishes and needs to Him in private. But at the end of the story, when God fulfills Zakariya’s need, Zakariya makes his gratitude a public affair- this echoes another beautiful prophetic etiquette found in verse 11 of Surah Duha, in which God encourages Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) to proclaim His blessings.

If you’re reading this, may Allah (swt) grant all of your hajaat in the most beautiful of ways. If this writing was of any benefit, please pray for the maghfirah and elevation of the young marhumeen of our community, especially Khurram Ali, Murtaza Rizvi, and Rubab Raza, may Allah (swt) grant their loved ones sabr. Please also pray for the freedom of Br. Ali Danial Hemani, and the miraculous recovery of Sr. Tasneem Amin and Sr. Nehmat Farhat.

& please remember this sinful lover in your duas 🙂 ❤

x r

The Lover of Isa (as): A Reflection on the Night of Power

There’s a beautiful Sufi saying i read once- i can’t remember the exact phrasing, but it was something along the lines of, “i overheard one conversation in the bazaar, and a hundred doors of wisdom opened within me.”

Many years ago, i experienced something akin to the magic invoked in that saying. It was the eve of the 23rd of Ramadhan, and my mom and i stopped by her Christian best friend’s house to drop off some food. Just before she left, my mom mentioned to her friend, “tonight is a very powerful night, so you should pray.” Without missing a beat, my mom’s friend immediately responded, “ok, i will.”

I don’t know why, but the swiftness of her reply- and the absolute sincerity in her voice as she responded- had a profound effect on my heart that still lingers to this day. She didn’t pause to think about it, or begrudge the fact that it was a suggestion rooted in a faith that was different than hers; it was as if she was instinctively ready to embrace any opportunity to worship God a little more. Many years have passed, but i still marvel at the beauty of that moment every time i think about it. It was just a fleeting sentence, but the quickness with which she said “i will” contained a fascinating spiritual lesson for me. In that one simple moment, she embodied the peak of what God wants from us: the beautiful sense of inner urgency that makes us say yes to any opportunity to get closer to Him- without hesitation, without any permutation of logic or evaluation of circumstance; just a genuine, sincere, intuitive “yes” that comes as naturally as breathing when we truly love Him. Reflecting on it now, i’m reminded of the beautiful phrase repeatedly found in the adhan and iqamah; “hayya ‘ala”- “hasten to”. While patience is essential in most areas of life, love and worship necessitate urgency, because the benefit of what one stands to gain is such that haste becomes the only sensible reaction.

In its deepest essence, this is what Divine love does: it magnetizes the soul to rush toward every opportunity for a deeper connection with the Beloved. It makes God such an absolute focal point, rationalization is rendered unnecessary the moment He comes into the picture, and the heart reflexively leads the cacophonous mind and tired body toward His light.

That night also made me think about the way the energy of the Night of Power can be intuitively felt by all living beings, regardless of creed. Throughout the month of Ramadhan, i often find that nature feels more vividly alive, as if every form of creation is engaging in a deeper level of ibadah. This difference is especially palpable on Laylatul Qadr- everything from the wind to the moon and stars seem to beautify themselves so as to attest to the greatness of their Creator; there’s a quiet pride in the atmosphere, and a dormant bliss in the sky that moves the soul to worship the moment one steps outside. It’s as if the air itself bears the fragrance of Divine mercy, as if God is as restless to forgive us as we are to beseech Him.

If you’re reading this, may God fulfill your every hajaat in the most beautiful of ways tonight; please keep me in your duas as well ❤

x r

Unconditional Love

It’s a beautiful, chilly day at the end of October, and i’m running on approximately 2 hours of sleep. I throw on a stunning ivory dress lined with pearls and set out for a mawlid festival at the masjid. My outfit is a bit too form-fitting, so i drape a large shawl around my body- a decision i gradually come to regret as i realize the shawl weighs as much as a small child. I get to the celebration and feel awash in a wave of pure joy- everyone there is radiating with happiness, as if bathed in profound, palpable affection for our beloved Prophet and his family. I wish i could bask in this energy forever; my heart aches to stay, but i’ve got a long day ahead of me.

As i embark on the lengthy drive across town to the next milad, i’m briefly startled when the seatbelt sensor of my passenger seat goes off. “Oh my God, is there a jinn in here with me?!” I nearly have a heart attack until i realize that the weight of my annoyingly heavy shawl must’ve triggered the sensor, so i push it off the seat, laughing at my own paranoia. I get to the next milad and realize i haven’t eaten anything all day- i’m running on iced coffee and fumes. I struggle to sit upright as the milad keeps going and going, exhaustion slowly taking over my body like a sleep paralysis demon. When it’s my turn to recite, i realize i’m too tired to hit the usual notes, so i modify the tune a bit and narrowly pull it off. As the milad draws to a close, i thank God with every remaining ounce of strength in my body and rush toward the door, but a chorus of voices calls out from behind me as two aunties ask me to give them a ride home. My body wants me to say no, but i have a feeling God wants me to say yes, so i sleepily agree.

After dropping the first aunty off, i’m alone with the second, who happens to be one of my favorite human beings on the planet. I should be on the verge of passing out and i can feel tears of exhaustion pooling in my eyes, but i’m in the presence of someone i love, so i feel wide awake and profoundly happy; her very existence eliminates all notions of tiredness. On the drive home, she tells me that she loves me the way she loves her own daughter, and calls me beautiful in a way that makes my heart melt. As she showers me in the sweetest praise i’ve ever heard, i feel unconditionally safe and loved, and i forget what it means to be tired or afraid. My cheeks flush and i feel the requisite nervousness of “God, please don’t let me prove her wrong”, but a part of me understands that she loves me from a place of soul, not illusion. She happily tells me about a meeting the elders’ club is having the next day and asks me to come, but my heart sinks as i tell her that i’ve got another commitment. As she excitedly tells me what they have planned, it strikes me that this is the single biggest complaint i have against life in this world: we never get to spend enough time with the people we love most, and it isn’t socially acceptable to simply tear up your schedule and tell someone, “all i want is to spend hours and days and months just basking in the pleasure of your company, can i do that? Can we please forget about the world for a while and just delight in the presence of each others’ souls?” She tenderly holds my free hand as i drive, and i realize i’m going to miss this night forever.

When i think of the Awliya’ullah, i don’t think of perfect men in flowing robes with beards of silver and shelves full of books, i think of her impossibly soft heart- the way gratitude pours from her lips like a constant prayer; the way she radiates a beautiful depth of God-consciousness my soul can never seem to get enough of. When i think of beauty, i don’t think of youthful faces or chiseled bodies; i think of the warmth of her deep brown eyes and the feeling of absolute love and safety that floods me every time i look into them. Every time she speaks to me, i feel so softly, lovingly seen; given shelter by eyes kinder, gentler, more forgiving than any i’ve ever known. I squeeze her hand in gratitude and say thank you, but my words feel trite relative to the surge of emotion i feel in my heart. I’m still a child relative to her; not sinless enough to be a worthy disciple, nor wise enough to be her student. But my soul dances every time i’m in her presence, and my heart tracks her movements like a dance and remains intoxicated for days.        

x r