Traces of God

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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

On Free Will, Faith, & Physics

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For the past few nights, i’ve been reading about the question of free will from the perspective of physicists, and i’ve been intrigued to find that many believe the universe to be completely deterministic in nature.  I guess this makes sense; if you believe in materialistic monism, then it likely becomes difficult to account for metaphysical variables such as consciousness, free will, and certain abstract notions and experiences that are characteristic of the human condition.  In order to stick to that worldview, you’d have no choice but to reduce all human complexities to mechanistic occurrences that are materially inevitable.

In one particularly amusing exchange between a hardcore determinist and free-will advocate, the proponent of free will argued that the fact that he’d decided to strike up a conversation with the determinist was a clear expression of his free will; the determinist argued that, on the contrary, their conversation was inevitable, because they were both comprised of particles bound by the laws of physics, and were thus bound by the determinism that underlies all physical phenomena.  Such dilemmas are why i love the Islamic explanation of ‘amr bayn al amrayn; that the truth lies somewhere in the middle. This view accounts for the full picture- it doesn’t negate the deterministic realities of our lives as reflected within the details of our biological composition, yet it also doesn’t negate the fact that we have the God-given will to make our own unique decisions against the backdrop of these factors.  The Qur’an itself affirms that the laws of nature are generally immutable; and yet, it affirms that exceptions even to these laws exist, if God so wills.  I’ve always had a special love for Surah ‘Asr because it beautifully captures both these realities.

My main beef with determinism (and its scary older brother, superdeterminism) is that such notions strip reality of all meaning and leave nihilism as the only logical approach to life.  If all of my actions are predetermined at an atomic level, then committing acts of evil should render no consequences for me, because i was simply doing what was inevitable anyway.  The notion of human agency- that our choices are, indeed, choices- is what gives life meaning, makes consequences just, and allows us to retain ideals, beliefs, passions, goals, and desires that enable us to build a complex and deeply fulfilling existence that isn’t purely animalistic or mundane in nature.  Poetically speaking, i’d go so far as to say that the best counterargument to hard determinism is simply… love.  Many realities of existence might be materially reducible, but love remains the eternally indefinable enigma that renders logic and materialism powerless.  While the emotion itself might arise deterministically, the pursuit of love in all its forms is the highest expression of free will.

x r

Divine Love Letters

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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

A Tale of Two Strangers in Najaf: A Reflection on Human Tenderness

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When I went to ziyarat a few years ago, there was a period of time in Najaf when my heart ached because of the way people behaved. Every time I tried to visit the interior of the shrine, I was shoved, elbowed, and choked, as many people were violently aggressive in their attempts to reach the zari. On a particularly rough day, I felt disheartened because of the principle of the matter: how was it that we could be gathered in one of the holiest cities in the world, to honor one of the greatest men who had ever lived, only to treat each other so poorly? The more I thought about it, the more I felt a childish surge of anger that distracted me from experiencing the pleasure of that sublime place.

Later that night, I went back to the shrine of Imam Ali (as) and moved several times because of the crowd. I finally found a peaceful spot and settled down to pray next to two women. As I finished the prayer and sat down to recite some duas, the woman sitting next to me said salaam with a huge smile, hugged me, and began complimenting me in a mixture of broken English and Farsi. She kept praising the way I worshiped, touched my face and told me I was beautiful, kissed my cheeks, and praised me again and again for simply doing what millions of people were there to do. There was no hint of shyness or reserve in the love she expressed; it was as if she were an old friend I’d run into after a lengthy separation. The sweetness of her behavior melted my heart and flooded me with awe. She told her companion about me and the other woman hugged and kissed me as well, and both women enveloped me in the warmest, kindest energy I’d ever encountered from strangers. A while after they left, I remembered how uneasy I’d been feeling before, and it occurred to me that it couldn’t have been a coincidence that I had ended up sitting next to them. It struck me that my master Amir ul Mu’mineen (as) wouldn’t have allowed me to leave his city without softening my heart and reminding me not to allow momentary displeasure to cloud my love for my fellow human beings.

Many years have passed, but the lesson those two women taught me has woven its way into the fabric of my heart, reminding me of the profound power of human tenderness: in a world that abounds with cruelty and indifference, having the courage to be warm, loving, and kind creates a force that dispels every form of darkness. In an era replete with hyper-individualism, kindness is like a foreign language that we sometimes feel too timid to speak- but the more we speak it, the more we realize that this is the highest calling our souls were created for: to become a living, tangible reflection of the infinite tenderness and mercy of the Divine. Every day, the world gives us endless reasons to become cynical, jaded, and doubtful of good. Yet the tenderness of a soft-hearted human being breaks this spell and reminds us that goodness exists everywhere- it only waits for us to open our hearts and recognize it until we, too, grow to embody it. The two women also reminded me that love wasn’t created to be a finite resource- it begs to be poured into every being and creature we encounter, no matter how briefly.

No discussion of tenderness would be complete without acknowledging the tender-hearted king of Najaf himself, Amir ul Mu’mineen. We often speak of Imam Ali’s loyalty, eloquence, and courage, but on nights of reflection, it’s the unparalleled depth of his empathy that takes my breath away. After the Prophet (pbuh), Imam Ali was the greatest being in existence- the most devoted ‘abd of Allah, the victor of countless battles, a champion unparalleled in strength, intellect, and Divine significance. And yet- Ali remained Ali. Despite experiencing the pinnacle of both honor and hardship, he never forgot the most vulnerable members of his community. Not only did he make time to shower them with reverence, kindness, and love, but he genuinely perceived them as no less important and beloved than those who had far more to offer him. When Ali felt the deprivation of the orphans of Kufa, it’s as if he felt their hunger within his own body- as if he couldn’t sleep until he made sure their hunger was satiated and their joy revived. It’s no surprise that these orphans felt as if the sky had fallen on the 19th of Ramadhan; for who but Ali could love the forgotten children of his city with the tenderness of a father?

At his doorstep, we learn not just the art of prayer itself, but the art of turning every interaction into a potential moment of worship. Our Imam actualized compassion as perfectly as he actualized bravery and ‘ubudiyyah, exemplifying the reality that faith is incomplete without tenderness of heart. This is why our hearts eternally gravitate toward holy cities like Najaf: the magnetism of a loving soul is so powerful, it calls to us across continents, oceans, and centuries, flooding us with love for beings we have never met, yet would happily give our lives for. To feel this depth of ‘ishq is to be a true mu’min; to embody it is to be a true Shi’a.

x r

To Be Alone with The Alone

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Something that leaves me slightly restless in social situations sometimes: human beings often view each other through the flattest, most one-dimensional lens possible, leaving little room for the recognition of the multi-faceted nature, depth, and evolution of each individual soul.  

Someone might hear your laughter and perceive you as naive, they might see your external form and view you as temptation, they might observe your joy and view you as a hollow, one-dimensional being devoid of complexity, fear, and struggle. This is why lovers find so much comfort in being with God; why His gaze endlessly sates them and brings them the deepest possible tranquility.  God knows the years of contemplation behind the laughter; He sees the shyness and vulnerability beneath the gleaming surface; He knows of the griefs and worries that precede each joy and triumph.  He perpetually views us in all of our facets, all of our dimensions, all of our flaws, and yet- having known us at our weakest- still introduces Himself to us as the Most Merciful and Most Compassionate.  Who could help but fall in love with a Lover so kind?

x r

The New Moon

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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

The Intoxication of the Stars

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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

Between the Shelves

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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

Meet Me at Dusk, Beloved

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Meet me at dusk, Beloved,
let’s get lost in the soft rumor of the night’s heartbeat

I linger like a myth on the shadow of the waves
The mystic moon hangs wreaths of stars above us
Weave my spirit into the passionate longing of the night
Kiss me as the music of the moon kisses the gleaming petals of the rose

Haven’t we endured this distance long enough?
Let’s fall into each other’s arms like tired stars
And bless the night with the borrowed dream of starswept lovers
drunk on the wine of Eternity.

Come sweeten this separation
with the moonlit honey of reunion;
meet me at dusk, Beloved.

x r

A Celebration of Love: A Poem on the Birth of Lady Fatima (as)

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Audio: https://soundcloud.com/rubabwrites/a-celebration-of-love-a-poem-on-the-birth-of-lady-fatima-as

A few years after Bi’tha, in the sixth month of the year,
the Prophet’s household is aglow, for the birth of Fatima is near.
The horizons start to blush at the rumor of her grace;
the stars gleam in anticipation of the beauty of her face.
The moon shyly bows its head out of hayaa and respect
and the sun composes poetry in a luminous dialect.
The celebration of her existence stirs every atom on the earth
as if the universe was created in anticipation of her birth.

A fruit from a forbidden tree brought Adam out of Jannah
yet the fruit the Prophet ate contained the pathway back to Jannah;
For within that fruit of Paradise was the light of Fatima
and the secret of salvation is the pleasure of Zahra.
She is the ever-flowing fountain, quenching the thirst of every soul
between nabuwwah and imamah, she is the link that makes them whole.

As i congratulate the ummah on the dawning of this night
My deepest felicitations are for the lover of that light;
For within the union of Ali and his beloved Fatima
lies the pathway of reunion between the human and Allah.
The power of Ali is often measured by his sword,
but the backbone of his strength was the woman he adored.

And if Ali divorced the world, why should a lover feel surprised?
What are a hundred billion galaxies compared to Zahra’s eyes?
With a single loving glance, she could heal his aching heart
like a rose that leaves its fragrance long after it departs.
She was the refuge of his secrets, the blood within his veins;
she was the yusr that was promised at the heart of every pain.
They were two seas that flowed in unison, giving birth to pearls and coral
A love that unveiled eternity into a universe temporal.

As we celebrate her coming, we celebrate our own revival
For the fulfillment of all creation lies in Fatima’s arrival.
For a woman whose heart awakens to the love of Fatima
becomes a bridge that brings the ones she loves closer to Allah.
And a man whose heart has grasped the nobility of Ali
Will not rest until he frees his soul from the nafs’s tyranny.
For Tawhid is the deepest yearning, at the core of every soul
No matter where our paths diverge, we all share this common goal
So the heart of every creature seeks the doorstep of Zahra
And this threshold bears the perfect path that returns us to Allah.

x r

Is Love a Transaction?

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A while ago, a friend told me that she believes all men are transactionary in the way they love others.  I thought about it for a while and came to the conclusion that this isn’t a problem specific to men- it’s an issue that can arise in any human being who loves from a place of ego rather than a place of soul.

There might be hearts that crave us only for the duration of time in which we bring them some form of pleasure- the warmth of companionship, the gleam of beauty, the softness of affection, the flattery of admiration.  When the pleasure we bring them ceases, such hearts probably forget us just as swiftly as they became intrigued.

But maybe there are also hearts that love us purely because they feel that the crossing of our paths is a Divine blessing that might never repeat itself.  Hearts that long for us, even when pleasure wanes and communication falters, because it’s the love of our essence that sparked their attachment- not the superficial lure of beauty or the fleeting allure of words, but the unique, incomparable nature of the way our souls resonated with theirs.

These are the hearts that i long to be with, that i miss, that tug at my heartstrings and leave me feeling restless for another meeting, no matter how shy i am about expressing this.  I’m terrible at being a consistent presence in peoples’ lives, but these are the names that immediately come to mind when i lift my hands to make dua… I’m so awash in adoration for them, i can’t help but talk to God about them and ask Him to reward their tenderness with His.

x r

It Isn’t So Complicated

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Maybe it isn’t so complicated. Maybe every person on earth is secretly yearning for a taste of reassurance to mend the hidden part of them that has always hungered for a bit more love, a bit more understanding, a bit more passion and validation and inspiration.

Maybe terrestrial miracles don’t always have to be as grand as the parting of the Red Sea. Maybe sometimes, the most earth-shattering of all miracles is the magic that blooms between two souls that truly understand each other. Maybe sometimes, God unveils His glory in the form of a staff that becomes a serpent; maybe sometimes, He unveils His glory in the form of soft hearts that can bear enough light to enliven others.

Maybe sometimes, the miracle is uncovering a bit more strength to keep walking dark paths alone. Maybe sometimes, the miracle is becoming brave enough to allow another person to carry the torch for a while. Maybe the miracle you need, in this moment, is simply the courage to kiss your fears and doubts to sleep; to release them into hibernation while you deepen your ability to have soulful trust and unwavering faith in yourself; to believe in that bit of inner Divinity that is waiting for you to align with the possibilities you were created to actualize. Maybe the most important miracle right now is to allow His love to flood you until it extinguishes the limitations, fears, and stories that prevent you from embracing the fulfillment of your deepest desires.

x r

On Vulnerability

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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 poem for majnun

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that night, when Layla became a perpetual figment of his daydreams,
perhaps he felt an insatiable desire to kiss the cheek of God;
perhaps he wondered if it would feel as soft as hers,
perhaps his worship had never tasted sweeter
for she had awakened his heart to the meaning of Beauty

when she fell like sacred sunlight upon the desolate field of his heart,
bathing his sorrows in golden light,
when he laid down the cold blade of judgment
and spared her exposed throat
perhaps he felt the breath of Divine mercy surging through him
and knew Love as he had never known it before

the night he found himself powerless against the dark tenderness of her eyes
perhaps he unsheathed his heart for the first time,
laying down the armor he’d clung to all his life
perhaps he learned the futility of logic as he tried to remember all the reasons he shouldn’t
while his intoxicated heart insisted that he must

perhaps he came to know her as the moon come down in human form for a while
perhaps his soul became a starlit night
eternally restless for her presence,
and she, incomplete without him

x r

The Poet’s Curse

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The curse of the poet is to be deeply attuned to every possible version of herself.  The version that could bring a man to his knees with the ache of desire, and the version whose eyes perpetually shy away from meeting anyone else’s for fear of inflaming them.  The version that is palpably aware of how easy it would be to lose herself in the wanton pursuit of passion, and the version who craves nothing more than to turn away from fleeting pleasures for the joy of her Beloved.  

She is both innocent and wild, light and shadow, rebellious and submissive; deeply self-restrained, yet periodically consumed by phases of unrestrained curiosity.  Her heart softens for everyone, but opens for few.  She doesn’t yield to temptation, yet can’t deny its secret hold over her.  But she does not desire to be desired for the sake of desire itself- her heart is moved only by the ecstasy of pure, unrelenting ‘ishq, the native rhythm of her intoxicated soul.

x r