Rumble

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What is that?
That rumble that I hear inside is not hunger for food.
Fear fighting courage, courage fighting fear and being nothing more than a powerless spectator.
The unfamiliar feeling of being out of control.
God letting me know who’s boss.
Forgive me for my ego.
I’m just getting older,
I’m just growing up.
That rumble is hunger for You.
-ME

There is no time

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Give me an inch and I’ll take a mile.

That’s the least I can do as life keeps taking things from me.

It’s not a joke.

Your senses must be really dull,

if you’re not overwhelmed by the pressure of losing out.

I don’t like sleep for that very reason.

There is so much for me to do,

things I will miss out on.

The book I need to read,

the writers mind I need to get into,

to understand one more human being,

their ability to convey a message,

to artistically communicate,

to mash a jumble of letters together,

and have it move someone.

If I give that inch away,

I will get suckered in the nose.

Prize fighting is serious business,

hurt business.

No one likes losing in business.

If I give that inch,

my son will take a mile and run with it.

He’ll be off in the wrong direction,

if I don’t steer that inch.

If I give that inch,

I’ll miss the mile wide sunrise.

Poverty stricken people,

who give inches.

They aren’t rich in life’s experiences.

They give inches,

and life takes miles from them

If I give that inch,

instead of taking it,

you won’t see the mile from me.

Perhaps one person will miss out,

someone,

but one.

-ME

Light upon light

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Some books are treasure chests of wisdom, eloquence and value. Page after page, you want to highlight lines but there is so much to highlight you may as well colour the whole book.

A small excerpt.

‘Those who through an evil disposition which may have previously been dormant, are willingly misled, expose their true nature so that it can be clearly seen. Caught under the light, they hasten towards darkness, they hasten home to where they belong.’

-Remembering God, Reflections on Islam Charles Le Gai Eaton

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The supreme prayer

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The Prophet Muhammad (pbbuh) was leading the prayer one day when he made signal to rise from bowing. Upon rising, the agreed upon tradition is to repeat Rabbana Wa Lakal Hamd (Oh my Lord, to you is all gratitude) after the Imam says “Sami’ Allah liman Hamida (Allah hears those who thank Him). So the companions of the Prophet Muhammad (pbbuh) repeated this but one man added ‘Hamdan, Katheeran, Tayiban Mubarakan fi’. (Gratitude in abundance, excellent and blessed). When they finished prayer, the Prophet (pbbuh) asked as to who said it. The companions were fearful that someone may have exceeded the boundaries of permissible actions during prayer. Eventually the man mustered up the courage and admitted to it. Much to his surprise the Prophet pbbuh said, ‘Indeed, I saw 30 angels all rushing towards you to see who would write down your rewards first’.
This is the power of gratitude.

Ode to father – part 1

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Scars are my tattoos, I pride myself in them but I don’t go out of my way to get them.
No ink and colour to express myself, feel comfortable in or beneath my skin. I learned this from a more exemplar man. I look at my father’s hands. He’s real bad ass, doesn’t need tats.
The fabric of the earth perfumed with his blood, yes, that olive tree still wails for him. Forty years after he traversed the earth away from it

Because his blood runs through the earth’s veins and when he gently prunes the roses twelve thousand kilometres away, the rose stems bend to him and becomes a bashful girl in the arms of her lover. The soil which nourishes that rose courses through from the olive tree beneath the Cedar Mountains of Lebanon and finds him in an Australian garden.
He treads lightly on the earth like God describes the believers in the Quran. Treading lightly meaning both literally, forward bent, head bowed in shame not of anything or anyone but in awe of God, nomadic movements without foot print and he moves spiritually by not burdening its resources and he is infatuated by Gods beauty made manifest through his creation, thus treating it kindly and with love as one does his maiden love on their first night.
His actions are gentle and loving but his hands have strength and power, the earth, winds, water and fire are summoned and rush to his aid in obedience to God’s promise, “When I love him, I am his hearing with which he hears, his seeing with which he sees, his hands with which he strikes, and his foot with which he walks…..”, simply because he practises what he knows and one need not know much to practise more.
No, he doesn’t have ink stained skin but he has a love stained and scarred heart. He has scars for tattoos and he taught me that they are tougher than ink tattoos, far more expressive, tell a thousand stories more and have oceans of character deeper than a cheap monetary exchange for a murial stabbed into your skin just because you chose so. You can’t decide to have character, you earn it. You can’t buy toughness, you suffer for it.

Want to be tough? Show me the fabric of your soul, the mettle of your make-up, not the bill for your ink.

My father is pure like the earth. A man of knowledge said of sages being like the earth, ‘Dung is flung on to the earth and flowers spring forth’, so too do sages get put through the worst of trials and tribulations, yet only beauty comes out of them. My father is purer, he is the earth embodiment, true to his nature, he knows the land, and it haunts him, always reminding him to come back. His love affair with it is not because of a leisurely hobby like fascination, it’s not on his Facebook likes, it’s because he knows where he came from and he knows where he is returning. He can take life’s blows because he’s already felt the earth’s cry, had the blood of saints and prophets beneath his feet and all he will do is continue to blossom until his time it is to re-join the elements.
My father doesn’t have tats, he has scars, he has soil beneath his nails and he sweats an earthly perfume from his brow. Those men, those women who know this way are few and far between. I implore you, find them, learn from them, eat a mouthful from their hand, lest their state may be passed on to you and you carry on this tradition.
I started by telling you about my scars, but I only have scars because I was allowed to enjoy myself by engaging in my passions, my leisurely activities and hobbies. My scars are lame compared to my fathers. My scars are from play, his scars are from life.

We are raised to believe that scars are ugly, they make perfect skin imperfect. They make handsome features grotesque or feminine soft skin tough and masculine, as if to stigmatise these at polar extremes to one another, unable to reconcile them as being able to exist with one another. Scars are the absolute distilled definition of beauty manifest. They tell stories of work, love and labour. They tell stories of struggle, pain and endurance. The scar on the heart of a person who has loved is not the same as the person who only speaks of love but never had their heart broken and had to mend it again. There is a reason why a scar is a physiological adaptation to stress, and forms the way it does. It makes the area more resilient, it toughens the area making it oblivious to further damage whilst at the same time increases its threshold. The body intelligently knows that to become stronger, it must change its basic structure. A scar is the beautiful and intelligent way the body naturally reforms itself. A scared heart is one that can now take more, love more, feel more, see more, share more, understand more, endure more, persevere more and be more patient. A heart devoid of scars is just an organ. But it takes incredible character and wisdom to allow a scarred heart to remain open and flexible, not closed and tight.

End: part one.
-ME

What matters

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I have come to the realisation that the most

important thing for me to do as a human

being is to arouse the deep seated

conviction and belief of the insignificance of

my existence. As a man the goal is amplified

by the reality of it having to be aroused as

quickly and early as possible in life.

As such, my children will learn to be better

human beings by acknowledging their

inferiority from a very young age.

There is no chair available for ego at

the dinner table in my house.

-ME