Skip to main content

Letter to myself

You may wonder why you are receiving this letter. It is a gift, a reminder of what you already know but sometimes forget: You are here for a reason.

You are a force. You are a created soul. You are important. If you've ever thought, “I'm just one person,” realize that one person is a lot.

Every human who has ever walked this earth was one person, and each of them left a mark. What will yours be?

And no, there is no need to move mountains. There is only a need to nourish hearts.

And your heart is the first one that needs to be watered. By His words. By His remembrance.

Some of the greatest deeds are things that no human can see. They are deeds of the heart, of the mind. Belief. Certainty. Hope. Optimism. Kindness.

Be kind. To yourself first.

Stop complaining. Stop lamenting over your lack of focus, discipline, vision, progress. Life is a whirlwind, a dream that quickly slips away. Find out what's important to you and do a little bit of it every day. It's that simple.

Focus on today. Yesterday cannot be changed, but today can. See the newness of today like a fresh page. As for tomorrow, it can't be changed by worry and fear. It can only be changed by du'aa.

Comfort your heart with the knowledge that what is yours will (inexplicably) be driven your way, and what is not will not. Don't turn away from opportunity because you are afraid; trust in Allah, walk through the door, and see where it leads.

Be kind to others. Be certain that you don't know their hearts, their circumstances. Pray for them, but don't judge.

Don't forget your family. Strangely, those in front of us are the easiest to neglect. Though they may drive you mad, no one loves you more. Cherish them, and tell them.

See. Really see. See what you have, not what you don't. See what's in your hand, not in the hand of your neighbour. Appreciate it before it's gone.

You are a traveller, passing through this land on your way home. Remember your destination, and follow your map so you don't get lost. As for the journey, make the most of it.

(February 2018)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

To school on a winter morning

I love the walks to school on winter mornings. The crisp weather, the leisurely stride, the friendly banter between my daughters and their cousin. Sometimes they link arms with her—not with each other, to be sure—and sometimes they take quick steps, trying to outpace each other. The puffy black jacket I bought a decade ago on another continent serves me well. Today, grey clouds loom above, but so far there is no rain. (It doesn’t take long for the streets to fill with water when it does rain, and then the walk turns into a delicate crisscrossing dance.) We’re approaching the school gate now. “Anyone want to hug and kiss me in public?” I quip. The girls politely decline, but they do say salam and “I love you.” I stand until they pass through the doors; both of them look at me and wave. I turn back, and soon I’m crossing a one-way road; I live in Egypt, so I look both ways. My way back is contemplative. I study all the greenery on my path—trees and bushes of various shapes and sizes. Som...

The first time I saw you

The first time I saw you, I knew my life would never be the same. Your face was swollen, red, and puffy, but to me it was the most beautiful I'd ever seen. Everything in you was perfect: your fingers, your toes, your shock of black hair, your newly-opened eyes. You were the epitome of everything new and good. To me, your existence meant love, hope, and wonder. The gift of you brought to life a part of my heart that I didn't know was there. To put it simply, I never knew a piece of me could exist outside my body. Also, I never knew the true meaning of “tired” until you came! Regardless, everything you did was amazing. When you smiled, held your head steady, sat by yourself, clapped, gurgled, crawled, stood, walked, talked... I was giddy with joy. I'd never felt a joy so pure. For the next three years, my life revolved completely around you (and, eleven months after you came, your sister). My sense of myself – my very existence – was defined by my babies. It was simultaneousl...

When I flew away

I flew away, one day, leaving you behind; you were not quite sixteen. There were ten years between us, and we shared a room for many of those years. And because of the age gap, you didn't get under my skin like the others... I remember the day you were born, and the jaundice lights they put you under, and your pitiful newborn cries. I couldn't stand to hear them and ran out of the room. Silly girl. Our oldest brother named you. He wanted you to have a strong name, like the woman who defended the Prophet in battle. And so it was. The little piece of flesh that came home with us from the hospital was called Nusaybah. You were Mom's sixth, and you were our baby as much as hers. Our old albums are peppered with photos of us carrying you, and you screaming your head off. One day, after she'd started you on solids, Mom asked me to put your baby food in a bowl of hot water, so it would be a suitable temperature. I was puzzled by the request, and when I asked for clarification,...