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

4th floor of the library: no one ever comes here, so it’s one of your favorite places to hide.  The outside world disappears as you run your fingers along the spines of unmet books, your mind tingling with the desire to be stimulated.  A mysterious cover bearing the half-shadowed face of a woman catches your eye.  You curiously open it and are stunned to find lines that perfectly mirror your innermost thoughts and feelings, as if penned by an unseen half of you.

Mesmerized, you drink in the stranger’s words without restraint.  You sink to the floor, consumed by the exhilarating rush of finding the perfect book of poetry.  The cold metal shelves send chills down your back as you devour each page like an impassioned predator consuming its prey.  How long have you been waiting for such soft, searing honesty? How much of your life have you spent searching for such finely expressed truths? What would existence be like if every conversation felt this raw and familiar?

As you finally shut the book with a satisfied smile, you remember that this is the hidden impulse behind every poem- the desire to initiate a conversation that can’t be had; the need to meticulously arrange words so as to convey the inexpressible.

x r

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

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

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

08/24/19

Deep in the heart of a faraway forest, while walking along a path that cuts through the trees, I glance up at the bare ceiling of the night sky.  I gasp with pleasure at the sight of millions of radiant constellations peering through the treetops like diamonds tossed against a veil of dark velvet.  My mind can scarcely comprehend such an excess of beauty, and the sight sends chills down my spine.  I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen so many stars reveal themselves so boldly to my naked eyes… what a rare, exquisite privilege to be alive tonight. 

I think of the words Allama Iqbal penned the night he witnessed Halley’s comet: “for a moment, all ambition was killed within me.”  As I drink in the majesty of the unsheathed sky, I understand him perfectly.  This moment is so substantial, even in its brevity- what more could I want? As I stand here, I forget my name, where I came from, and where I’d been wanting to go.  The stars have bewitched me and robbed me of all desire and identity.  I can’t bring myself to photograph what I see, even in my mind’s eye, because this moment feels too sacred; it has thrown my heart into impassioned worship of the Artist who created it.  I want to share this intoxication with everyone I’ve ever loved, but tonight I’m alone with God, and His company fills my heart with ecstasy.

The temptation to lie mesmerized beneath the narcotic stars forever is strong, but I know I can’t stay. My heart feels driven wild tonight, so I’ll resume my interlude with the sky on a night when my pulse matches the soft, gentle rhythm of the tranquil constellations. I tear my gaze from the millions of twinkling eyes above me and promise that I’ll see them again soon, maybe on a night when I feel steady and lucid again. As I walk away, the hum of dragonflies mingled with the heat of late summer desire leaves me dizzy and ignites a persistent tingling in my ribcage. I smile despite the ache of unanswered questions, vowing to remember the beauty of this night forever.

x r

The world and its infinity of distractions and temptations is constantly nipping at your heels, and you sometimes feel a few short steps away from hurtling into the heart of your most wayward impulses. So you come here, a passionate wanderer seeking sanctuary in a hallowed place of worship, finding refuge in the sacred purity of books.

Sometimes your deepest, most unexpressed hunger is the need for conversation that flows beyond the superficial; for a soft escape from worldly trivialities into the luminous depths of wonder.  You find the opportunity for such dialogue among these crowded shelves, diving into the minds of writers, thinkers, and poets from eras past whose words permeate your heart like a series of answers waiting to be sought.  This is the form of satiation that quenches your innermost longing- the desire to feel deeply understood, to feel seen by eyes that penetrate your tranquil surface and roam the depths within.

x r