half past nomad

jazakalakhair for the dua’s.
intern work is upto 12 hours a day somtimes.

insha-allah, i’ll return on the weekend.

remember when i said i was tired a few days ago
little did i know.

now i’m really tired.

insha-allah insha-allah.

The first class is titled “Introduction to Islamic Research Methodology”. I designed and developed it. Insha-allah, today we implement it. I don’t want any of the credit for it, I just do the work. It’s the professor who has the tough job.

I’m currently signed up for the other course, “Endowments, Awqaf and Philanthrophy in Islam”, a wonderous topic and aspect of our islamic heritage that I rarely hear discussed. This course promises me the kind of thinking that I look forward to. The former course, otherwise.

My supervisor however is nice enough to sign me up for both courses, and not even have me mentioned as Staff in the internal memo. I’m designated as the “Instructional Designer”, loud and clear. Might as well put a large bulls eye on me, for all to know who was responsible for this mess.

Dear Allah, please make everything ok today.
Thanks.
Much love,
Waleed, Instructional Designer.

For one of the few rare times in my life, I may actually skip lunch today. =)

We launch our new institution in two days.

And I’m exhausted, a fatigue that rains out of my hair, pours out of downcast fingers, seeps out of my aching shoulders.
And I’m pushed, a shove that settles in your back from running around too much, a cramp that is in your legs but you can’t stop moving, a new muscle pain that makes you wonder how exactly you used that muscle.

Move, like you’re never going to stop.
Pray, like you’re never going to again.

But it’s good tired.
It’s real good tired.
And I’m loving this.

You know you are possibly the least educated man in the office when even the receptionist (or the administration assistant) has a degree in law.
And you, you don’t even got your own mug at work.

He sat infront of me, an honest smile on his tired face. Physical fatigue battled mental strength and he continued on with his explanation. “You see, it is the responsibility of every muslim to educate themselves, even to their last dying breath. You have to improve, you have to become better and you have to excel in all that you do. To do anything less, no, it is not sufficient. It is insufficient. It is an insult. No. I say No!”

Best are those conversations that don’t start a roaring fire, but rather a flame small and strong that can burn and burn and burn away in you. For that fire adds on to your mind alive, to your intellect aroused, to soul aflame.

From this day of Eid onwards, may you all burn brighter.

The world outside is a blur. Zipping, skipping, screaming silently by.
The only constants are the zooming cars nearby, the cellphone addicts in their leather cars, and the cousins of the white stripes on the road coming one after another. We’re driving quietly quickly with the flow of traffic. We talk little, instead focusing on the road itself, each of our minds calculating, and extrapolating data of our nearby metal neighbors.
A good driver knows one thing: to go forward, sometimes you have to go backwards and sideways.

Driving in a large metropolitan area is a beatuiful wonderful annoying bloody hell get out my way you !@#! %!-

Let’s start over.

Driving is fun. Metropolitans are fun. Thefore, driving in a metropolitan area is fun. True, there be traffic jams, that got more cars then a beach got sand but there’s an element of intelligence about a large moving traffic that is almost non-existent in small towns. Here, when you drive, you’re playing chess and checkers at the same time on the same board.
It’s a chess board, where queens and knights are jumping and changing lanes crazy fast. There are pawns and bishops that refuse to move out of your way, only as a grudging last resort. And there are kings of the board, helpless idiots that needed to get off the highway fourteen exits ago but couldn’t because the queen wouldn’t let them.
And just like checkers, you zip across the lanes, changing speeds, angles, directions and intentions a thousand times a minute. Should you reach the end of the board (your exit), you are free to move as you like. It’s just a matter of getting there.

However, it’s the cunning driving that I adore here. Up on the highway, it’s war, with alliances made temporarily and given way to stronger forces. It’s insanity, a giant mad asylum because everyone is crazy enough to drive like that. It’s highschool all over again, when you only pay attention to the rules whilst the hall monitor is around, a careless reckless kingdom of halls for you otherwise.

She sat on the chair, leaning up against the counter, a 70 year old woman who had seen more world then I had seen life. And she tells me, in all her wisdom, nuggets of smuggled secrets:
“Listen carefully. Make sure you get yourself a V-6.”

Frightened, every creature exhibits natural instintive patterns. Some fish blow up into a larger size. Some insects play dead. Carnivores go on a murdering rampage to show their total unsatisfaction with the Atkins Diet, especially since it said “no more fried {insert animal hunted down today here}”.
Alas.

Similarly, your breath has an instintive habit. Upon fright, it takes off faster then you can. Like a bolt of lightening, faster then Mighty Mouse, it’s off in any direction it can find, a blind racehorse deposited magically in the middle of a happy happy green field. Due to our inane inability to live without breathing, we are forced, once again instinctively, to run like mad right after this precious breath of ours. We dash insanely, jump incredibly high and hit the ground with a perfect roll and hop. It’s amazing really, the things we can do if we absolutely don’t think about it.
It reminds me of Douglas Adam’s secret to flying. It’s to fall, yes, but to fall without hitting the ground. It’s the details that make the difference.

Eventually, you catch your breath and in a hurried manner of a gentleman caught with TP on his shoes, you stuff and stuff and stuff that breath back into you, a little embarassed at the world around you. Passerby give you looks that say “Hey, dude, what happened? Did Timmy fall down the well again?” and all you can reply back is the huffing, the puffing and the horizontal hand shaking that means “No no, I’m ok, really. I even goto the gym on a regular basis. Want to see my card? I have it. Come back here and see my card! Come back!”

And that is how I explain my need to carry around a whip, to scare my breath occasionaly, randomly, frequently, any minute now and thus eventually tame it into submission. That and because I always leave my drinks too far to reach.

Musa (pbuh) once made a dua:
“Oh Allah! I am in desperate need of any good you can send my way”
(paraphrased)

I marvel at this tiny phrase, this immaculate prayer and I cannot imagine me being in any other stage except for the one of a desperate need of any good from Allah.

Oh Allah! It is your mercy I seek, so please do not leave me in charge of my own affairs, even for a blink of an eye. Did you know that when you perform you salat, Allah turns to you with His Face and faces you as such? That when you stand in salat, you literally stand infront of God Almighty himself? That when you recite each verse of Surah Al-Fatiha, Allah himself answers to you?

I once heard someone speak of the most disgusting man that exists. It will be him who believes himself outside the forgiveness and mercy of his Lord.

It’s a little weird, but I cannot give it up now. The only way I did before was in leaving everything in His hands. For a whole year, I prayed alone, by myself, my entire jamaat consisting of me, and whatever jinns/angels behind me – I know not of such things. For an entire year, I made sajood alone except during Jumma where I was even more lonely. A whole year that existed between me, and my Allah alone. Now, alhamdulilah, I’m in jamaat 4 times a day. I cannot imagine life without it.

I cannot imagine my life without my salat, without my astaghfar, without my praises to Allah. I cannot imagine my life without my duas, my pleas, without my screaming whispers of peace. I cannot imagine my life without my sajood, my dhikr before sleep, without that first line at the masjid.

Last night I held my hands up in dua during witr, and I held them up high. And I could not hold them up, but without my head trembling, face downcast fully. Afraid to speak, afraid to ask, afraid to move, I stood there gathering courage to ask beg. My voice came out shaking, my hands clasped together, my shoulders hunched up, my feet and knees touching each other.
With what strength do I demand from him? None.
With what pride do I demand from him? None.
With what acts to boast of, do I demand from him? None
With thanks I sank down to sajood.

Humble me yet my Creator.

Insha-allah, akds will be guest blogging, on and off, more on then off, but sufficiently off to be on again. Curious minds may remember akds from previous hits such as “Searching for Concentrated Redemption”, “I lost my mama in the Congo” and “I lost my mama in the Congo, again!” (the latter two being false blog names). Currrently he’s located in the midwest through no fault of his own and constantly yammers of dreams to move out.
Akds also dreams a lot.

Akds is a gifted writer, and one who has always advised me within the folds of Islam. Such enthusiasm, I marvel and such advise, I always seek. I am proud to say he’s my close brother, in Islam.

For years, people have marvelled at his name, akds. “What could it stand for?“, masses have pondered. Feel free to throw in your two cents, or whatever loose change you have lying around.
Trust me. He needs the laundry money.

Sometimes you can feel fate. Feel it shape your destiny. Feel it flow around you as you stand at crossroads. Like the wind. I must admit, I am nervous. Not nervous about writing here, mind you, but about tomorrow. Thursday I’ll stand at a crossroad. I can feel this subtleness. I have this nagging feeling. But I swear that I am placing my trust in Allah. Some would contend it’s all right to be afraid. Some would ask how could you not feel nervous. But I would like to think that there was a time when real believers would simply resign their fate to the hands of Allah. An act few of us are capable of now. How do you stand tall when changes are coming? How do you sleep surrounded by such complexity and uncertainty? How do you handle the inevitable fate? How do you stay determined in placing your trust in God? Tell me because I can feel the wind but I don’t want to be caught in a storm.