On Superficiality, Modesty, & Love

~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been experiencing a strange phenomenon this year: i keep getting rishtas from men who are interested in marrying me on the condition that i stop wearing hijab.  I generally laugh it off and don’t give them a second thought… my understanding of love has nothing in common with the shallow inclinations of men who want to display a woman like a trophy.  The right love for me would be marked by soulful secrecy; by the slow, deliberate unveiling of my beauty for just one man’s gaze.

I’ll never welcome the hunger of strange men, but i will sate the man i love with beauty beyond his wildest dreams. He’ll rejoice in the pleasure of knowing that his eyes are free to roam where no other man’s eyes can, for the simple reason that he’s the companion my heart has chosen as its equal. The ecstasy of my physical form will inspire him to worship the One who made me with newfound depth and fervor… in the softness of my body and the silk of my hair, he will find infinite reasons to praise my Beloved.  

My beauty will not drive him into ruin like a curse; it will propel him toward ascension, like desire winged by purity.  I will not mesmerize him into blindness, but awaken him into new depths of seeing. Veiling is not a condemnation of desire; it is the sublime, sacred purification of it.

x r

When Laughter Becomes Worship

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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

Supermarket Magic

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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

To Raise a Black Child: A Tribute to George Floyd

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You come into this world and she holds you for the very first time- a moment she has been waiting for her entire life, tears and sweat streaming down her tired face. She takes one look at your fragile body- more important than the sun as it gleams beneath the hospital lights, and you become the center of her universe. You are her greatest triumph, the victory she has been preparing for all her life. From the moment your cries pierce the air, you become her purpose, her air supply, her reason for being in a world that is constantly telling her not to be. But she isn’t worried about the world today. She will never again think about anything as intently as she thinks about you. She plants a soft kiss on the damp crown of your newborn curls; a kiss echoed by God, who made you Black because He found you beautiful.

Her hands still shaking from her brush with death, she wraps you in a blanket that made her heart sing when she chose it, gently tucking your squirming hands and feet into the safe shelter of a mother’s love. But the day you leave her womb is the last time you will ever know safety.

You grow up, carrying the inheritance of transatlantic genocide and the genetic memory of lynchings and separations as you move through a world that pretends it can tolerate you, but the sight of your skin- darker than original sin in their eyes- fills them with the same rage the devil felt when he looked at the earthen body of Adam and refused to bow.

You move through life with the weight of those knife-like eyes pressing their blades against you. You don’t understand why they stare, but you learn to stare back with a warrior’s defiance. Your courage only makes them angrier. They don’t understand why you refuse to hate you they way they hate you. They build a world where all the rules are set against you and pretend to be shocked when you don’t win as easily as they do. But when you do win, their fury knows no bounds.

I wanted to write you a beautiful story. One that ends with a white picket fence and the fulfillment of the dreams your mother saw as she carried you in the safe haven of her body for nine months. But your story doesn’t end like that. You were a playful, curious boy full of laughter and vivaciousness, but they shot you dead at age 12 as you played in the park. You loved princesses and the color pink, but they set your blanket on fire and shot you dead at age 7 as you slept on your grandmother’s couch. You lived a good life, until they chased you for four minutes as your daily jog turned into a losing race against their outstretched guns. You tried your best to stay resilient through the ups and downs of life, until the moment his knee pressed against your neck. You begged for air, but he silenced your cries by pressing harder as he felt the life leave your body- the body that was once more important than the sun.

The body once wrapped in a carefully chosen blanket is now wrapped in a black body bag. Black like your skin, because black was your sin, for your first mistake was to be born into a world that couldn’t forgive the color that it found you in. When your mama held you, did she tell you the rules? Don’t play, don’t speak, don’t move, don’t run, don’t eat candy, don’t carry candy, don’t look, don’t live, don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe.

The proclamation they worship declared that your body was free, but they traded the slavemaster’s whips for guns and a broken system designed to hold you in place better than chains ever could. They become outraged when you kneel, but the outrage leaves them the instant your soul leaves your body, and only returns when they object to smashed storefronts with greater anger than the sight of your smashed windpipe.

What words in all the languages of man could convey how cruel this world has been to you, how cruelly my own people have been an accessory to your alienation and pain? What apology can I give to you, my beloved brothers and sisters? All I can do is pledge to stand with you and keep your memory alive in these words: Black Lives Matter.

x r

A Snowy Morning

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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

5 Years

Featured ~ Rubab ~ 1 Comment

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

Ya Ali

~ Rubab ~ 2 Comments

There was a name my mother taught me, long before I learned to speak
That I could utter like a prayer if I felt frightened, lost, or weak.
This name- its letters carried me, and made of me a sparrow
Casting light on every wayward path, no matter how dark or narrow.
Every time I speak aloud this name in moments I need aid,
It’s like wings begin emerging from between my shoulder blades.
When my heart is caught off guard, it returns me to my self
And points me to the sacred book that sits upon my shelf.

It was among the holy names my Creator taught to Prophet Adam;
Among the holiest of secrets that the angels couldn’t fathom.
It is the name I whisper quietly, in the face of every need,
It was the name on Zainab’s weary lips, in the courtyard of Yazid.
It is the name that grants me entry, into the city of ‘ilm and hikmah;
It is the name that completes religion, as revealed in Ma’idah.
It was the name Rasulallah called out, like a cry of victory
When he sought the bravest of his sahaba, who would not hesitate or flee.
Peace be upon that warrior, the fearless lion of Allah;
The nafs of the Holy Prophet, and the beloved of Zahra.
The one born within the walls of the holiest of places,
Whose eyes would only open for the holiest of faces.

Our brothers often ask us, why we rave about Ali
Instead of talking about God or Rahmatul lil Alameen.
The merits of the Prophet, aren’t denied by anyone,
So many ayaat of the Qur’an confirm that he’s the greatest one.
But so many titles of Ali, were usurped by his enemies
Who may have called themselves Siddiq, Farooq, and al Ghani,
To them I say, remember when, our Prophet’s life was at an end,
And the last of his requests, was some paper and a pen?
You didn’t heed his dying wish, to write the name of his wali,
So it’s that sunnah we carry out, when we write the merits of Ali.

If you want me to accept, another Amirul Mu’mineen
Find me a man who loved Allah, as profoundly as Ali.
Within a single munajaat, I find the pinnacle of Tawhid;
With the exception of the Prophet, no one knew God like Ali.
Born in the house of God, and martyred while he worshiped
Ali’s life began with haqq, and the life of haqq became Ali.

It is the wish of every poet to touch the heavens with her words,
To take a lifeless set of letters and transform them into birds,
But the essence of my subject, is far beyond the reach of ink
For Ali exceeds the reach of those who philosophize and think.
They try to moderate this love, to confine its outer limits
Because it hasn’t taken root within the essence of their spirits
For wilayah is the bridge that unites the soul with its Creator;
If Tawhid is the highest level, wilayah is the elevator.
But to comprehend wilayah, and gain that immortal elevation
We must replace the filth of ego with pure intoxication.
There’s no room for multiplicity, the heart only serves one master
To put anyone before him, results in fitnah and disaster.

The ‘ishq of Ali possesses me, and makes a home within my being
It gives my eyes a newfound sight, that sees without physically seeing.
This love that set aflame the jealous heart of Ubaidullah
Still infuriates the admirers of the likes of Muawiyah.
But no matter what our enemies say, I will write about wilayah
With the single-minded passion, of Majnun in love with Layla.

I swear by that lonely man, who gave his secrets to the earth
This love exceeds the universe, in both resonance and worth.
This love flows within the blood, that courses through my veins
It exceeds the seven oceans and every depth that they contain.
Like Abu Dhar al Ghifari, I would rather roam the desert sands,
Than contemplate the leadership of any other man;
I can not call myself a Shi’a, but it remains my only dream
to become worthy of the path of Amirul Mu’mineen.
So like Maytham at Tammar, may my tongue be sacrificed
And may this passion stay alive after the last of us has died.

–Rubab Zaidi

Audio: https://soundcloud.com/rubabwrites/ya-ali

A Vision of the Final Hour

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Written after Fajr on the day of Mab’ath, March 22, 2020

When I arrived in the courtyard of my Beloved, a silence had fallen over the crowd as people waited anxiously for the proclamation that would seal their fates. Scholars tugged nervously at their beards, mystics pulled at the loose threads of their cloaks, preachers stood tall and defiant, and the lovers of the world glanced around frantically, struggling to make sense of the realities unfolding around them. The question on each mind as they prepared for the dawn of Truth was the same: who was right? Every heart quietly doubted its share of Truth, while every mind believed fervently in its own claim to the throne of Haqq.

As Truth began to dawn, it was as if the sky had been ripped by an invisible knife. Colors spilled into the horizon like oil as the sun ascended to its throne. It was a sunrise the likes of which had never been seen before. Some began sobbing wildly at the sight; others stared, wide-eyed in disbelief, mesmerized as the glow of the unbearably radiant sun began to singe their faces. As the sun reached its zenith, people fell to the ground in despair. Mystics, preachers, and scholars alike sank to their knees as the weight of their miscalculations began to crush them; the lovers of the world began tearing at their clothes in agony, and the sound of impassioned wailing filled the sky.

I watched these scenes unfold from my quiet corner, my eyes transfixed on the sun as I wondered how long it would take to burn me. I tore my gaze away and in the distance, I began to notice some people I hadn’t seen before. Had they been here the whole time? There was nothing to distinguish them; they carried no trace of identity, no hint of who they might be. I noticed them now because in that sea of despair, they were the only ones left standing as if in a state of qiyam. They wore a look that made me blush with its intensity: an expression of sublime, indescribable peace. I realized that unlike the others, they were not looking at the sun; instead, the sun appeared to be looking at them. As their bodies began emitting warmth and their faces became more luminous, I realized that they had no need to look at the sun; it had taken up residence within and was now emitting light from inside of them.

I was so captivated by their beauty, I forgot every conception of beauty I had ever held before. I stood there longingly, unable to look away. I noticed that while the emergence of the sun had caused most people to tear away from each other in horror as hidden realities became manifest, they alone had moved closer to their fellow beings. They were now fully immersed in the care of those surrounding them. Some held the shaking hands of weeping sages, some restrained the distraught scholars who were tearing at the pages of their books in grief, while others embraced unmoving bodies that seemed too dazed for movement. As they tended to the needs of those around them, I realized that I’d been mistaken about their lack of identity. They were scholars, mystics, preachers, and lovers, but they had left behind their turbans, books, possessions, and cloaks. The only thing they had brought with them was the softness of heart that now drove them to help the broken and wounded.

They did not revel in the triumph of their correctness, nor were they physically overwhelmed by it. While the rest of us could scarcely bear to look at each other for fear of the horrors we might face, they looked upon each person with absolute tenderness. They carried on with the task of holding and healing as if nothing else existed. My heart filled with awe, my knees buckled, and tears flooded my eyes as I began to realize how little I had ever understood. One of them noticed my state and approached me immediately. They wiped away my tears with soft, featherlike grace and took my weakened body into their arms. By their touch, the parts of my face that had begun to blister from the sun’s heat were healed and I felt no pain anymore. To be embraced by them was like embracing the sun itself; I had never experienced warmth like this. My body strengthened, they pulled away and smiled at me. Despite my shame and fear, I smiled back. They leaned forward and whispered a secret in my ear, “it isn’t too late for you… Join us.” With these words, I finally recognized the source of their strange magic.  They had succeeded in harnessing the power that Iblis had turned his back on: humility. What a marvelous, audacious victory. The radiance pouring from their bodies was simply a manifestation of their humility; it was the truest essence of who they were. And I understood at last: these were the people who had never been concerned with owning or weaponizing the Truth, they had been too busy becoming it.

x r

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

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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 Night with the Beloved

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I sit beneath the late night sky, my eyes affixed on the mesmerizing halo that encases the blushing moon. The sea of flaxen clouds surrounding it are veiled by a soft ring of golden moonlight, as if the heavens have donned their finest apparel in honor of tonight’s celebration. In the distance, Venus gleams like a radiant, unveiled jewel. I want to speak to my Beloved the way He deserves to be spoken to, but I’m painfully worried about doing everything wrong tonight. I’ve changed my clothing thrice in anticipation of meeting Him, adorned myself with my most beautiful jewelry, enchanted my clothing with my finest perfumes, but I know my attention to the vessel is mere distraction; internally, I’ve brought little more than ignorance, neglect, and the pain of separation.

I apologize for how distracted my heart has become, as I wonder: of all the ways He could have tested me, why this? I’ve been battling a terrible longing to be understood, and the intensity of this desire has filled my heart like an intoxicant. I know the irrationality of it; I understand the futility of wanting anyone other than God to become fluent in the language of my soul. But my heart aches for it just the same, and that ache pollutes the sacred spaces that are meant to contain my love for Him. Like a rising tide of dark water seeping into a once-clear ocean, the waters of my soul begin to darken in response to the disarray. Is my lostness evidence of my failure? The night air has grown cold and my body shakes from the late spring chill, my throat aching as I continue to pray. This used to be so easy, so blissful, but the division of my heart has robbed this conversation of so much of its beauty. The sweetness of unity that used to govern my interactions with Him is now tinged with multiplicity. Has the world I once turned my back on become my greatest fixation? Has my heart become disloyal? My cheeks redden at this thought.

As I begin to recite the sublime ziyarat that never fails to ease my soul, a trace of understanding enters my wounded, imperfect heart. If I could hear my Beloved’s voice, maybe He would tell me that I’ve already been tested with so much loss, it wouldn’t be much of a test anymore. But just as loss softened the earth of my heart and caused my reliance on Him to deepen, perhaps this unsated yearning for understanding will bring me back to Him in the most enduring manner. The intensity of my solitude often feels like punishment; it feels like a prison sentence to have been given a heart so different in a world full of people who might never understand it. But couldn’t this punishment become my greatest glory if I learned to see it as Yusuf (as) did- as a means to become more deeply immersed in the love of my Beloved?

As I whisper the names of the Aale Yaseen (as), my pain finally begins to subside. My heart fills with an unbidden wave of gratitude as the reality of tonight shakes me and reminds me what a privilege it is to be aware of the existence of this path. I have not yet learned to walk it, but I have the honor of speaking aloud the names of God’s most beloved ones; the honor of sending my salaams to them. Even amid the yearning that distracts me, what more could I want but that? Would any degree of gratitude be sufficient to thank Him for the pleasure of this love? The ache of my heart is slowly transmuted into bliss as love for the holy fourteen floods my spirit. I move through the world feeling alone, but I’ve never known companionship like the love that now overtakes my being. And in this moment, I know: this love is the reason for the continued beating of my heart; it is the very substance my heart is made of. On nights when nothing else makes sense and I feel like a foreigner in this strange world, this love is my home.

x r

A Forest Fantasy

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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

On Healing

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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

4 Years

~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment
From the very first time I opened my eyes in this world, you were there.  I followed you around like a shadow, always wanting to be where you were, always wanting to do what you were doing.  As I grew, you patiently taught me everything you knew- how to write, how to play every sport, how to ride a bike, how to play video games, how to dribble and shoot a basketball, how to drive.  When I had nightmares as a child, I’d curl up as close to you as possible and stare at you, knowing nothing could ever hurt me as long as I had my big brother nearby.
 
I used to say that I would die if anything ever happened to you or Zohair, and I believed it.  I couldn’t imagine a life where I’d have to live without your warm smile, your goofy teasing, your tender hugs, your hand on my cheek, your presence at my bedroom door every night, every time you came home and wanted to check in and ask if I needed anything.  I still miss the way you’d narrate the entire game to yourself while playing basketball.  I miss the look of childlike delight you’d get every time your favorite team won, the way you’d yell, jump up and down, and run around the house like a madman.  I miss your endless notebooks full of stats, the way you’d stick your tongue out to the side a little as you wrote down your encyclopedic knowledge of every player.  I miss the way your eyes would shine and you’d smile extra big after coming home from a night of playing ball with your friends, the way you’d excitedly recap the highlights of the game while I struggled to keep up.  I miss sitting in your car with ESPN radio blasting, secretly turning down the volume dial every time you looked away.  I miss yelling at you to slow down, I even miss grabbing onto the edge of my seat as you zipped through traffic like a Fast and Furious stunt driver.
 
Learning to live without you has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.  There’s a home video of us from South Dakota that I think about all the time.  I was barely a year old, so you must have been four or five.  I was toddling behind our wooden bunk bed and got stuck.  I cried out for help and you and Zohair immediately jumped into action.  He told you I was stuck, and in your most heroic, determined voice you said, “I’ll save her!” That was our whole life- no matter how scared, lost, sad, or uncertain I felt, you were always there to come to my rescue.  The day I lost you, it felt like someone pulled the earth from under my feet; I was falling and you weren’t there to catch me anymore.
 
But losing you reminded me that there’s another side to loss- the side that reacquaints us with the reality of everything.  When we lose what we thought we couldn’t live without, we understand that God is truly all there is.  Everyone and everything we love exists on borrowed time; He alone is eternal.  After you died, I recited Surah Rahman every day, as many times as it took to calm my heart.  Whenever I got to verse 60, a sense of absolute relief would wash over me, no matter how sad I felt.  It reminded me that if I truly loved you, I had to teach myself to see your departure into the next life as a blessing, no matter how much it hurt.  Because no matter how much I wish we could’ve had more time together, no matter how badly I wish I could’ve watched you live a full, happy life, nothing in this world could ever equal what our Creator has promised for you in the afterlife.  If I truly love you, how could I not accept that being near God, in a sublime place where nothing can ever hurt you and there’s only bliss and satisfaction, is better than anything I could’ve ever given you here? If I love you, how can I not thank God for welcoming you back to Him, even if it means separation for us? 
 
The years ahead will always be bittersweet.  There are days I already want to skip because of how badly it’s going to hurt when you’re not there.  But I promise to always remain in love with life.  You tell me this in my dreams and I carry this understanding everywhere I go: we’ll be together again someday, in a place where there are no more distances or goodbyes.  My responsibility while I’m here is to live a meaningful life that pleases Him, to point the way to Him the way you always did with your kind gestures and beautiful deeds.  Someday, we’ll look back and laugh at these days because they’ll feel briefer than the blink of an eye, and we won’t even remember what it was like to be apart.  
 
Until that day, have fun balling with Mamba… I can’t wait to watch you dunk on him some day.  I love you forever ❤

An Autumn Sunset

~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

A few days ago, I was driving home and the sunset was so exquisite, it drove my heart wild.  I drove in passionate pursuit of it, past home, past all the streets I could recognize, until I found a remote hill to park on.  I took it in for a while, a huge smile on my face as I marveled for the thousandth time at how I’ve never seen two sunsets that look precisely the same.  The arrangement, the hues, the painting of the surrounding clouds- something is always at least a little bit different.  God’s artistry is so perfect and so unendingly varied, it takes my breath away and I feel so deliciously close to Him in these moments. 

As night fell, the weather radically shifted.  The wind began blowing and a chill took root in the air that made my throat ache and my whole body shiver.  I’ve missed that feeling so much; the feeling of needing to get wrapped up in the shelter of something warm, of feeling the blood rush to my cheeks to heat them, the slightly painful sting of cold air that makes the surface of my skin hum with electricity.  Autumn is finally beginning to feel like Autumn, and I can’t wait to rush into its open arms and convey how much I’ve missed it.  I hope the leaves turn gold enough to breathe new life into my poetry.

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