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

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

On the first night of Ramadhan, i was at the mosque when a woman stepped inside and said, “go look at the moon, Rubab- you can see it so clearly!” I rushed outside and was immediately spellbound.  The new moon was shy and enigmatic, its beauty slightly veiled by a dark haze of clouds, yet the gleam of its halo was unmistakably resplendent, almost defiant in its radiance.  I gazed at it in awe for a few moments, my heart flooding with adoration.

The moment reminded me of something i absolutely love about the human experience: how we can’t take in a moment of exquisite beauty, fascination, or wonder without wanting to share it with someone else.  We love to be moved, and we love to communicate about what moves us- especially through creative mediums such as photography, poetry, writing, film, and art- as if some deeper instinct is perpetually pushing us to create an imprint on the heart of another until it, too, is stirred. If i had to summarize the creative human drive in one line, it’d be this: we are a deeply sensitive, impressionable species that thrives on sparking emotion, joy, and curiosity in each other.  In our deepest moments of inspiration, it’s as if we become living mirrors reflecting the beauty of God’s ayaat.

x r

Sometimes I lie awake at night and think about how easy it is to destroy the softest, sweetest parts of who we are, and how so much of the external world seems almost designed to persuade us to do so. As I watch the people I love grow and change, I think back to my memories of their most tender, vulnerable moments, and I wonder where all that unapologetic softness goes as people age. I often think about how different the world would be if we weren’t compelled to hide the most delicate aspects of ourselves simply to carry out the pantomime of adulthood. I’m as guilty of it as anyone else- how many times in a day do I shy away from being as kind as I’d like to be because life has taught me to fear the consequences of kindness? How many compliments do I leave idling on my tongue because I don’t want to come across as insincere or easily taken advantage of? 

But it wounds me to harden my heart, and I can’t deeply connect with anyone unless I take my foot off the brake and break my shell open at least a little.  There’s just one important thing life has taught me that I’ll never unlearn: I have the right to set firm boundaries about who I offer my softness to, and not everyone deserves a seat at my table. This isn’t a matter of arrogance or selfishness, it’s self-respect.

x r

A few days ago, my mom and i were in the checkout line at the grocery store (that notoriously mystical place where cosmic truths occasionally unveil themselves) when she happily told me that the woman at the cash register had been really kind to her the last time she’d been there.  The woman at the register was elderly, with white hair cut short, a slightly hunched back, and placid blue eyes that had a dreamy look to them.  As we greeted her, she replied warmly, and my mom mentioned that she’d just been telling me how kind she was the other day.  The woman responded with appreciation and magnetic, almost childlike warmth.  As she talked to us, the beauty of her words and manners captivated me and i felt so taken with her presence- she was lighthearted, sweet, affectionate, cheerful, polite- mesmerizing qualities that are so easily overlooked in our fast-moving world.  She spoke and carried herself like a woman in love with the world, and i felt a rush of affection for her soft, unjaded demeanor.

As i moved to the bagging area and waited, i felt like i was being watched.  I glanced up and realized that the man bagging our groceries was looking at me, as if waiting for me to notice him.  When our eyes met, he gave me the warmest, sweetest smile.  He was a middle-aged man in his 40s with salt-and-pepper hair, and his smile reached his eyes, projecting a boyish innocence i rarely see these days.  I smiled back and felt an immediate sense of ease and comfort around him, marveling at the uniquely beautiful energies that both his soul and that of the woman seemed to carry.  

I know there are a thousand more interesting things to write about than a mundane visit to the supermarket, but brief encounters with strangers like this remind me of how much unbidden, unexpected beauty still exists in the world… they remind me that even in this era of disconnection and polarization, the world is still full of people with lively smiles, soulful eyes, and soft, impossibly tender hearts.

x r

There you lie, heaving under the crushing weight of loss, refusing to allow yourself to ever feel truly, deeply happy again.  If you allow anything to bring you that kind of joy, it could be taken away or altered, you could be deprived of it at any moment.  You’ve learned that it’s safer not to be attached, not to feel too strongly; you worry that any trace of joy might rise up like a smoke signal, compelling fate to steal away your happiness again.

But inevitably, it happens: the sun rises in a way that captivates you and takes your breath away, and a rebellious sense of wonder sneaks back into your heart.  You catch a gleam of sunlight on a newly-bloomed rose and you can’t help but smile despite the ache in your soul.  You spend a day planting flowers with your mother, the perfume of damp earth filling your mind with a sense of renewal, and you understand: you weren’t created to be lightless.

You were created to be the sun itself: always rising again, always finding a way to exude radiance, life, and warmth, no matter how dark the atmosphere.  Grief is heavy and inevitable, but it isn’t home.  Home is the ray of brilliant sunlight that penetrates the darkest fog; home is you at your most open, brave, and vulnerable.  Like the rebel flower that blooms in the dead of winter, your laughter unfolds again and you smile without apology, safe in the knowledge that even fate can’t steal away the joy that God has woven into the fabric of your being.  By the light of the greatest Healer, there is no season cold enough to keep your heart from melting into a fresh awareness of gratitude and hope.

x r