Shelter is a place of refuge from the elements, an escape from the chilling embrace of winter.
I envision the warmth of a cinnamon fireplace, of cobbled stone and children snuggled under wooly throws, while icicles peer in through windows with half drawn curtains while clasping tenuously to the soffits and fascia, while soft golden rays laying warm hues over the cold, blue blanket of snow.
It strikes me then that we exist on a planet whose environs are gradually warming while our homes grow steadily more frigid and stale. Perhaps this is why the masses seek refuge from their homes rather than in them.
It seems that everyday we are confronted with our inability to be who we would like to be, by our personal saga of frailties and failures.
If this is true then perhaps our success does not lie in surmounting our failings, because in a sense one never does, but rather in continuing to strive despite of them.
For important admissions or presentations, people set up mock rehearsals. The salik should also run a mock. Nightly, weekly, monthly – regardless there needs to be accountability.
While mocks are painful, like listening to a recording of one’s own voice, they facilitate a smooth performance when it really counts. On that day, it’s make it or break it. You don’t get a chance to apply next year.
Sins of intimate nature appear irresistible. No matter how prolific the swimmer, he cannot fight high tide. One confronted finds himself torn. He put forth all resistance but the pressure is too high, pull too forceful. He surmises that to succumb is to find relief, however temporary.
Therein lies the paradox.
Yes, letting go may lend some short-lived respite, but it is no more than the swimmer who finds anchor on slippery, moss-covered shallow ground. It is only a matter of time till the next tide sweeps him away again, every time dragged farther away from inland. To save himself, he must swim against tempest waters, persevere till he reaches the banks of sandy shore…and still then force his weary legs to carry his battered body home. He will collapse on his bed – in safety. By perpetual abstinence in the tempest-tossed waters of an over-sexualized society, one eventually returns to equanimity and safety.
Knowledge without spirituality is empty; spirituality without knowledge misguidance.
Reflection 1-11
“I never let my emotions overcome my intellect, and I never let my intellect overcome the Shari’ah.”
– Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanwi
The one who knows but acts not has little advantage over one who knows naught.
Reflection 1-9
Shelter is a place of refuge from the elements, an escape from the chilling embrace of winter.
I envision the warmth of a cinnamon fireplace, of cobbled stone and children snuggled under wooly throws, while icicles peer in through windows with half drawn curtains while clasping tenuously to the soffits and fascia, while soft golden rays laying warm hues over the cold, blue blanket of snow.
It strikes me then that we exist on a planet whose environs are gradually warming while our homes grow steadily more frigid and stale. Perhaps this is why the masses seek refuge from their homes rather than in them.
Reflection 1-8
It seems that everyday we are confronted with our inability to be who we would like to be, by our personal saga of frailties and failures.
If this is true then perhaps our success does not lie in surmounting our failings, because in a sense one never does, but rather in continuing to strive despite of them.
Reflection 1-7
For important admissions or presentations, people set up mock rehearsals. The salik should also run a mock. Nightly, weekly, monthly – regardless there needs to be accountability.
While mocks are painful, like listening to a recording of one’s own voice, they facilitate a smooth performance when it really counts. On that day, it’s make it or break it. You don’t get a chance to apply next year.
Reflection 1-6
Sins of intimate nature appear irresistible. No matter how prolific the swimmer, he cannot fight high tide. One confronted finds himself torn. He put forth all resistance but the pressure is too high, pull too forceful. He surmises that to succumb is to find relief, however temporary.
Therein lies the paradox.
Yes, letting go may lend some short-lived respite, but it is no more than the swimmer who finds anchor on slippery, moss-covered shallow ground. It is only a matter of time till the next tide sweeps him away again, every time dragged farther away from inland. To save himself, he must swim against tempest waters, persevere till he reaches the banks of sandy shore…and still then force his weary legs to carry his battered body home. He will collapse on his bed – in safety. By perpetual abstinence in the tempest-tossed waters of an over-sexualized society, one eventually returns to equanimity and safety.
The waters quiet. One returns home.