Category: Prose

When Laughter Becomes Worship

Featured ~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

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

A Snowy Morning

~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

2.14.2021

I wake up to the heaviest snow I’ve seen in years.  It gently blankets everything in a sea of mesmerizing, powdery white.  My heart surges with excitement as I stand in the doorway and watch millions of tiny flakes flutter to the earth like fireflies.  In the heated cat house on our front porch, one of my stray friends curls up with his eyes tightly shut.  I try to coax him inside where it’s warmer, but he shyly declines; his trust will not be easily won.  I shut the door and a shiver runs down my back as the cold chill penetrates my thin t-shirt and electrifies my skin.

I make my morning cup of chai and sip it slowly, glancing out the window from time to time to watch the progression of the dreamlike snowfall.  I pull off my icy outer layers and curl up in front of my space heater, blissfully shutting my eyes as the heat returns to my body.  As I listen to the rhythmic gusts of wind heaving outside my window, I notice that the wind takes on a different dialect in winter. It’s somber, wiser, more experienced; tinged with a tranquil acceptance of all things that have come to pass, yet full of innocent longing for what is yet to come.  As the day grows brighter, my inner child takes the reigns and I step out to catch snowflakes on my tongue, nearly tasting the lost magic of early childhood winters in South Dakota.

x r

On The 48 Laws of Power and the Lost Art of Communication

~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

In the modern era, communication often resembles two strangers passing each other in a crowd; words might be exchanged between them, but neither person stops long enough to make sense of what has been conveyed. The essence of communication lies in nuance, and nuance takes time to be understood and unraveled. A profound, soul-baring conversation is one of the closest things to magic that we can experience within the confines of material reality. But this kind of magic requires bravery, and modern communication is dominated by fear. Fears of: will they like me? Will I get the upper-hand? Will I win?

As logically sound as they might be, social-hacking theories such as Robert Greene’s ’48 Laws of Power’ can serve as a hidden test of an individual’s willpower and courage. When presented with tempting, foolproof shortcuts to getting our desired ends, will we still have the courage to opt for the long, hard road of sincerity and earnestness? In the face of intellectual armor that can shield us from all vulnerability, will we have the wisdom to dispense of that armor and leave ourselves open to the possibility of pain, without which true growth and connection cannot occur?

Communication shouldn’t be laden with calculation, self-aggrandizement, or the hidden lure of personal agendas; it should be heartfelt, authentic, and honest. Meaningful communication exudes playfulness, resonance, and depth, not manipulation and artifice. This mode of communication may not always “win”, but its fruits are never rotten. It’s strange to be alive in a time when words are used as mechanisms of concealment and misdirection as often as they’re used for the genuine expression of one’s thoughts, but we’re living in strange times, period.

In the immortal words of Imam Ali (as),

When words come from the heart of anyone, they find a place in the heart of another. But when they come merely from the tongue, they don’t go further than the ears.

x r

A Forest Fantasy

~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

It’s a beautiful day in early Spring and the wildflowers are in full bloom. The wind rustles through the trees like a woman combing her beloved’s hair with her fingers. There’s a soft chill in the crisp air, enough to color my face and remind me that every inch of me is intensely alive. I’m wearing a long silk dress and jasmine flowers in my hair, my lips stained with the hue of wild berries plucked after sunrise, and my cheeks are slightly wet from the morning dew.

I brew tea using petals from the flowers that grow outside my cottage, and the air is soon thick with the heady fragrance of lavender and honey. I fill pastries with sweet cream and berries, and my garden comes to life with the daily stream of visitors: frolicking rabbits, curious squirrels, graceful deer, lilting sparrows, and burrowing owls. At the foot of my chair, my soft-bellied cat lazes in the warm rays of the afternoon sun. In the distance, I hear the music of the nearby brook as tiny fish and frogs leap through its waters. Every creature, large and small, depends on the earth and her bounties as much as I do. They lend their voices to the hypnotic symphony that echoes through the forest.

In the evening, the forest song slows to a hum and my unmet lover returns from a hard day’s work. He wraps his arms around me and his lips graze my collarbones, my lungs filling with the intoxicating scent of sweat. Night falls and the stars glimmer with mirth as I lay softly against him, smiling as he drifts to sleep.

Someday, I may live in a time and place where I’ve forgotten the sublime magic of the forest. But today, I’m aflame with love for the earth and all she holds dear.

x r

The Bearer of Roses

~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

She was born with armfuls of roses, and cast into a marketplace that dealt only in stems.  She carried those precious flowers for years, like wayward orphans perched in the cradle of her arms, refusing to give up on their beauty.  But over time her arms grew weary, and the stark sight of her flowers of red against their stems of green began to singe her.  Finally, she tore off all her petals, one by one, until at last she was left with stems no different from theirs.

“Oh!” they exclaimed, as if seeing her for the first time.  “What a remarkable bunch of stems!” The verdant freshness of her stalks won her lovers everywhere.  But as she went to bed each night, she slept with the exhaustion of one whose rose-drunk heart spends each day feigning interest in dispassionate stems.  She dreamt endlessly of her missing roses; of the exquisite texture of each petal as it had once kissed her skin, of the vibrancy of that blushing scarlet pallor, of the heady perfume that had once enraptured her thoughts every time she inhaled, now singing to her with its phantom notes. The world was at her feet, but she felt bitter, empty, and distant. The love they gave her felt like an illusion; she hungered for reality.

Finally, the day came when her yearning for truth outweighed her desire for the pleasure of acceptance. As certainty filled her heart, her roses grew back, now more luxuriant and beautiful than ever. The day they fully bloomed, she took a deep breath and stepped into the marketplace again. As she approached the crowd that had once clamored for her affection, she drew icy, venomous stares and expressions of astonishment.  The people began to whisper among themselves, some audibly laughing as they chided her. She smiled with relief, knowing she had made the correct decision. From that day onward, she walked happily through the streets of the marketplace, leaving a trail of fragrant petals everywhere she went.

Over time, something strange happened: the roses that had once drawn scorn and censure became widely, deeply loved. Soon enough, the marketplace was aflood with beautiful roses in every shade and texture, the air perpetually perfumed by their alluring scent. Occasionally, newcomers would arrive, each bringing a new array of flowers; lilies, sunflowers, orchids, irises, peonies, and more, until the once-colorless marketplace became a vibrant paradise filled with every imaginable hue.  As each new person arrived, the bearer of roses came to greet them, ensuring that they would never feel alone.

x r