Fear.

Fear.
It gnaws at my throat, gripping, grabbing, ripping and clenching.
Tightening my wind pipes, squeezing my breath, I look round hoping it won’t come to collect.
Collecting my hopes, my dreams, my love for you; it never left, it’s residue lingering on the fringes of my faith, I cry in anxiety, calling out to God. Free me, hold me, keep me close, don’t let him take me and don’t let him collect.
The dark place.
That place where the soul lingers, gasping for light, seeking its might.

Don’t let it collect; remaining fragments of love, hope and years of ache, the small pieces of glass, broken, some mended, always cracked.
Don’t collect.
Fear, how real a transformation of the abstract.

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Forgiveness

Sometimes forgiving is easier then remembering the pain. Sometimes letting go is better then holding on and moving forward is better then living in the past. Running away isn’t always the right option but removing yourself from the situation is always your decision.

Forgive friend so you maybe forgiven

Love so you can love yourself,

Make the choice and start afresh,

For tomorrow is never promised.

Praise is only for today.

Revitalize

Revitalize

Beyond Faults

Love beyond all faults, My friend.
Who knows which one of your faults, may turn the Beloveds face away from you?

So remember, to Love beyond all faults,
for only Love can teach and Mercy can rectify.

Live in His spirit,
Love beyond all faults.
My friend,
you were once lost too.

The Passionate Woman

Feel blessed to be a woman of passion

A passionate woman. 
A woman who feels and hears.

A woman who cries from her soul and laughs from her breast,
Full of joy and love. 

A giving woman. 
A kind woman. 
A woman not afraid of her mistakes. 

A woman God has blessed time and time again.
An Imperfect woman,
Who is proud of her blessings

Rejoice in the passion he has given you. 

The feeling of feeling passionate about something or someone is a feeling not everyone is blessed with…
The ultimate aim is to achieve that everlasting passion…To feel the نور (light) entering the breast. 

Don’t be Afraid
Embrace it.

We are Passionate Women.

 

Tree of Life – SHE

SHE.

She, looked at her familiar surroundings, sighed and sat down, cross legged, tired limbs, puffy eyes, ragged skin.
No. This can’t be it.

She, picking up her pen and deep rooted notebook, sighed and starting writing; fragmented thoughts, disjointed puzzles, unanswered questions.
No. This can’t be it.

She, torn between half smiles and those half frozen tears; laughs.
No. This can’t be it.

The tree has deep rooted veins, the golden veins bulge on the cover, a backdrop of long brown winters.

The tree, has branches and leafs.
They begin to fall, scattering the brown earth like stars in the dark sky.
Her golden feathers crumble to the ground.

No. This can’t be it.

She, sits staring at her leafless tree, sighs and puts the pen down.

No. This can’t be it…

The roots don’t budge,
but
The branches still grow,
Seasons change,
Life once more takes ITs form.

She, sitting cross legged, tired to the bone; rejoices and quietly cries.
See, this is IT….

20140430-004518.jpg

Seeking

Seeking alone is not enough,

One must search through his yearning –

For the Beloved is shy,

Like the wind you feel but cannot see.

 

“Assalatu khayrum minan naum” الصلاة خير من النوم

“Assalatu khayrum minan naum

الصلاة خير من النوم

Why do you not hear the Beloveds call?

When He found you lost and guided you.

He found you broken and saved you.

He found you alone and befriended you.

He found you hurt and healed you.

He found you each and every time, by calling you:

“Assalatu khayrum minan naum

الصلاة خير من النوم

Why do you not hear the Beloved call?

Has your heart become so attached to the sounds of this Earth,

 that you do not hear the soft tone, of The One.

The Earth spinning on its axis hears His call,

the Sun that rises in the east and sets in the west hears His call,

the Moon taking over at night hears His call,

each rushing to obey swiftly, at His Call.

Yet you do not hear the Beloveds call.

Why has your heard hardened to the Call of the Beloved?

“Assalatu khayrum minan naum

الصلاة خير من النوم

 Come, Come, lets go Home.

Miracle

Image

 

I never imagined, to be,

One of those, who preach,

I never thought I would see,

The beauty of your love, so clearly,

I always hoped but never believed,

Miracles were always for the weak.

Now, years later I can perceive,

The irrationality of my old futile creed.

Now, years later, I know I bear witness, to You,

The One and Only.

My everything.

Beloved

Why has your heart hardened to the call of the Beloved?

Do you not hear the calling at dawn?

The birds chirping, singing the Beloveds song,

the trees swaying, bowing down at every call.

Why have your eyes veiled to the beauty of the Beloved?

Do you not see the shining of the stars that scatter the night sky?

The leafs that change colour, at their set time,

the rain that pours down, giving way to life.

Why has your heart hardened to the call of the Beloved?

The one who made love, gives love and is loved.

Why has your heart hardened to the call of the Beloved?

Are you not in Love?

On Storytelling

Image

It was like a mystical moment. A moment of high revelation and spiritual ecstasy; It was a scary conversation; one of my first ever on a philosophical level. 

It was a revelation of words. It was a revelation of true storytelling.

A conversion.

“Your life is a story.” I still hear the words SHE had said to me.

SHE was like Mother Nature calling out to me – whispering her secret, through the caress of the summer wind.

It’s funny though, because I cannot recall who this SHE was now. I know I loved her.

Memory fails me. I’m hardly what you would call old; just aged with the timeless quality of an antique timepiece. Hidden away in the shadows; an Old Soul. Unknown to the Earth; a fragmented Nomad.

Every little thing that happens to you, whether good or bad and everyone who enters your life – whether for a second, a minute, an hour, a day, month or a year – becomes a part of Your story.”

Her tone rose on the word “Your”.

“My Story,” I had repeated.

I marveled at the notion of life being a story and I thought back to the days, months and years on end, when i had tried so hard to make the odd, aching, disjointed puzzles of life fit together. Of course, they never did fit.

But her words, in that brief encounter had taught me that what i had been searching for since that first gush of fresh air had reached my dry throat.

I didn’t have control over the characters and incidents of this story. 

I was in awe at the simple logic of this.

For days on end I recall that aged, old anguish one has, at the lack of control one has over his life – all the while thinking he is in control.

I had sighed.

I rejoiced at the harsh memories in my Pandora’s Box and at the silent picture frames haunting the edges of my own untold Odyssey.

Embrace it, for only you can Tell Your Story.”

I always fancied myself in the World of Old.

The myth was out.

I had turned, trying to catch her. But it was too late she had glided past me, leaving a ghostly chill.

I heard her often. But I never felt her again.

But there are times, I can swear the oath that she is near. Close by. Waiting to remind me of my tale, still untold.

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