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 writer in me

The writer in me, nurtured at an early age but silenced in its prime by country-hopping, teaching, and babies —an occasional gasp for air its only reprieve from slow suffocation— longs to speak again. I've so much to say, it tells me, but you haven't been listening. Don't hold me back, it says by shopping, cooking, and lame excuses. Let me go, it says; let me speak. Ya Allah, strengthen my voice. (July 2018)

Shoe hostages

You used to hide our shoes. It was your tried-and-true way of getting your nieces and nephews to sleep over. “Okay, kids, let’s go home now,” one of your siblings would say at the end of a visit. “But their shoes are nowhere to be found,” you’d say. “I guess they’ll just have to sleep over!” Your siblings would chuckle at this hostage-taking and relent. But not my dad. He’d demand the shoes be procured immediately. And what choice did you have but to listen to your older brother? You had no children of your own, and you spoiled us rotten. Love flowed freely from your heart, knowing no bounds. We saw it in the hours you spent telling us stories, in your home that was always open, in the milk you put out for strays, and in your endless batches of fried potatoes. They were legendary, those potatoes. I still don’t know why yours always tasted the best. My brother would eat a plateful all by himself, and you’d just laugh and go make more. You don’t make them anymore. The last time I saw you...