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heard about a certain man in India who has a good philosophy about paths that are blocked. While leading a circumnambulation around a certain tomb, a sweeper had propped a broom in such a way that the handle blocked his path. But rather than break the rhythm of his prayer by moving the broom or by finding someone to do so, he waited and he prayed, and in time another sweeper came by and picked it up, and he proceeded on his way.

Now if one were in a constant state of circumnambulation, as one might argue we are from a galactical viewpoint, at every blocked path one could wait, and one could pray, and in time the way would become clear. In fact I just heard someone else say that everything you wish will happen in life, you just must wait for it.

I've been noticing these last few days how ways become blocked. People who seem half-asleep amble into a doorway, and stay awhile. Lumbering trucks back out into the road, attempting to head in another direction. Sometimes, for a moment, the way is so blocked that it seems life has stopped entirely. But it moves on as a record does while reaching its correct speed, and the music begins to play again.

While tuning his guitar during the last session of Suluk, someone said if we felt like we were waiting instead of just being, we might need to repeat the four years. I think it's true but in my case at least, it won't be necessary.

Posted by Satya at 4:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

ll the time I pray
I keep on
killing mosquitoes.

— Issa

This is my favorite haiku, and so apt at the moment.

Posted by Satya at 11:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

he terminal gate is a difficult place to enjoy a meal. I am hunched precariously over a Chicago-style hot dog while seated across an aisle (with barely more legroom than the plane itself) from a trio of rowdy boys tearing through a bag of chips, kicking their legs, and generally making a raucous mess. I pause for a moment and close my eyes to say a silent grace. One of them must have noticed, because he grabs his younger brothers for their attention.

"We forgot!" he exclaims urgently. "Forgot what?" the littlest says. "We forgot to pray for our food," the eldest replies, looking suddenly concerned for the morals of his family.

"Thank you Lord for our food!" cries the youngest. It doesn't matter at all that at this point in his relatively new life, it is probably rote and meaningless, because it means something to me. We are all now people who pray over our food. And a duty having thus been satisfied, the whirl of the airport spins on.

Posted by Satya at 8:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

took Shahada in a black Nissan Sentra at the end of Chairfactory Road, outside my best friend's house overlooking a cornfield. It was morning and the wind had picked up, and the tree outside her house was waving hello. I don't know if this is the type of thing done often in a rental car, but my friends didn't need to be awakened with my proclamation, and I hoped I would think of it often in future times when I got behind the wheel, because it's nice to think of one's unity with God when in ordinary places.

I know of my responsibilities associated with this three-second activity, the ones both real to me and the ones projected upon one who makes such an utterance. That is why I waited so long to say it with intention. But the time and task feel right, and I believe there is no God but God, and I love Muhammed (SAAS), so why does it need to be any more complicated?

Shahada to me is the seal in the wax, the ring on the finger. Making it official, saying yes to something I've loved for a long time. Needing no witness but God. Needing not to awaken any sleepers. Just taking one moment in the silence that is only stirred by wind to invoke, to testify, and then turning the key and driving on down to breakfast.

Posted by Satya at 6:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)