What it felt like to be Loved
If you asked me what it felt like to be loved, I’d tell you that I didn’t know much beyond handwritten letters carefully slipped into envelopes that held the scent of a place so familiarly unfamiliar, a place where the father of my father loved to write and wrote to love and marked his love permanently with ink on paper that he sent over cities and oceans and skies to reach me.
If you asked me what it felt like to be loved, I’d tell you it was in the unfolding of the creases that lined those letters, from the first time with small hands and a carefree heart, to today, with hands more experienced and a heart that smiled sadly at the sight.
If you asked me what it felt like to be loved, I’d tell you that I didn’t know much, except that the graceful slant of his handwriting would tell you otherwise.
The first rays of Morning
Bismillah
Yes, she had wept over it. Wept plenty. Her eyes still stung from the rough wiping away of the streams and rivers of grief, desperate to end the flow of them, the stubborn flow of them.
Yes, it had felt as if someone had punctured a hole into her very core, and not one of those clean holes with smooth edges either; it had been like a hole dug messily with a shovel that was piercing at her insides and throwing them out into peripheries where they didn’t belong, step by step by painful step.
And yes, things had suddenly become so much more difficult, it was like she could see her past joys and pleasures slowly pick themselves up and walk away from her, shaking their heads as they went.
But.
But she also noticed that the water of her eyes left her vision cleared and she was finally able to see what had always been before her with contours blurred and unclear until now.
And the shovel that had been digging into her had reached the bottom where a chest of treasures lay hidden, unbeknownst to her until she allowed herself to bring it out before her, gently blowing at the layer of dust to reveal gold.
And that burdensome weight on her chest that had held her down for so long seemed to sprout wings and she watched it lift itself from her and ascend towards the sky before dissolving into a thousand and one shards of nothingness.
And though the hurt never left, it was buried beneath a layer of peace that blanketed itself over the pain like fresh, quiet snow.
Because it had all brought her closer to Him, and she was finally seeing the first rays of morning after a long, restless night.
A clarification of sorts
Bismillah
Assalamu Alaykum
May the peace and blessings of Allah be upon you. 
After going back to My Motto and reading through it again, I feel the need to clarify some things. I feel as though I, through this blog at least, may come off as a flawless, easy-going wayfarer breezing through her desert world, trying to reach home. This gives me a nagging feeling. Because I know that that is not the case, and I don’t want anyone thinking that it should be that easy. It’s not meant to be easy. There are always obstacles, always rocks and pebbles in the way (okay, so deserts don’t have rocks and pebbles — cactuses, then). It is hard. Very hard. Sometimes you get stuck, you know? Sometimes you fall for the deceiving mirages in the distance, and you chase after them, realizing the pointlessness of such an ambition only too late. But we try to get back on track, we try to continue moving forward towards home. Despite the heat, despite the thirst, we force ourselves to keep moving — and that is what counts.
Long story short, I am a far cry from perfect. And that only touches the surface of the truths I know about myself. I just needed to clarify this.
I pray that whoever reads this is blessed with the best state of imaan and health, and I pray the same for myself. Ameen.
If I have said anything wrong, please please please do let me know inshaAllah.
Victoriously Beautiful
Those dark circles, those bags beneath your eyes
are so beautiful when
you allow yourself to smile.
They lift with the twinkle in your pupils,
heavy with everything they have seen.
You are a tired soul, but
you are strivingly,
victoriously beautiful.
Be calm. Be still. Be quiet.
Everything slips away with the tide of it. The worldly life doesn’t stand a chance. Like empty bottles and broken glass and things that don’t belong in the sea, all the excess of this life just washes away.
And the wonder of it is that you don’t feel empty with it all gone. It’s more like a trimming of what doesn’t need to be there anymore. You feel less burdened, weightless. Light. Yet, simultaneously, you’re like a glass filled to the brim.
Remembrance of death is powerful, but not painful. It doesn’t stop you; it forces you to keep moving. Not in every which way, but in the right way. It humbles you.
And it is calming. So calming. Forget the anxieties, forget the noise. To the quiet is where you are headed, so shhh. Be calm. Be still. Be quiet.
It will all be over soon.
Remember your purpose, act on it and, rest assured,
it will all be over soon.
I can hear the footfalls.
Each a farther distance away.
And it dawns on me,
Collapses
On me,
A brick to the Red
Organ that says:
You are walking away.
And your steps, the
heels of your shoes, they
speak the unspoken farewell.
I can hear the footfalls.
I can hear the death
In soundlessness, like
Steam, they fill the eardrums
As reticence reveals
A darker side to her
face.
Echoed are words of
Something remembered, as they
Dissolve into the air
That is left in your wake.
Shall I ask the air? Why us? Why so?
So easily lifted, so
Effortlessly brushed away,
Oh, do you hear the footfalls?
Mine?
Stumbling; not as graceful as yours,
not as assured?
Do you hear them? Do you?
Is there sound in them?
Is there sound?
Is there sound?
I can hear your footfalls
Their rhythm, a clock
That cackles
Makes clear that time
At least here, is done
Completed its course;
Has moved along, has
moved
along.
Night stroll…
I went for a walk after dark today, and it was quite nice. It was one of those really rare moments of precious, precious solitude. I was in no hurry, with no immediate obligation to be anywhere. Simply in the present.
It was perfect.
It gave me time to think about a lot of things. The past, the future. My place in all of it. Where I was this time, last year. Two years ago. Four. Where I might be headed.
But I also thought about how I always seem to be dwelling on those things: past and future. What about here? What about right now? I’m usually so distracted by the things passed, or worried about the things ahead, that I hardly give the things happening right this second a thought. I become idle that way.
There are so many things I need to change about myself and my surroundings. My habits. Maybe if I spent more time trying to work on these things, instead of waiting for something or someone else to come around and conveniently do all the hard work for me, I might succeed in making a few tweaks in my life.
This is, after all, my life. It’s my responsibility. No one else has any obligation to live it for me. To learn for me. To work for me. I have to do these things. I’m the only one who can, and I’m the only one who will be held accountable for them on a day when there’s no turning back.
Insha Allah I listen to my own advice this time.
