The Rose, The Dervish and the Sea - be a servant and master this world

Master this World

In the Rose of Love,

Between its many-coloured petals,

A dervish whirls,

In the Sea of Mercy,

Beneath the Sky of Knowledge,

There hides a pearl.

Look for it!

Be a good servant

And master this world.

..........................

This world is the world of the ego. And (so I am told) the more you chase it, the less you will gain out of it. And if you run away from the world, it will come chasing after you, offering you its wealth and rich prizes! And this contradictory nature continues in your function of a servant - for the best of masters is the very best of servants of God, His Beloved Muhammad (s.a.w.s.) and of all humanity and created things.

We serve the Masters (Shaykhs and Murshids of the Sufi path)? Well, in a manner of speaking. But in truth what can we offer such illuminated souls? They are already happy, happy with God, happy with the Prophet, happy with the Saints of the before, the now and the future. Nay, while we may affect some servanthood towards the Masters, the truth is it is the Masters who serve and support us... for the love and abiding affection to their Most Beloved Master, Muhammad (s.a.w.s.).

Young men and women. In the spring of their lives often speak of love.
But if you wish to learn of real love... there is no better way
than here. MasyaAllah...

Bless you, sunshine. May you have a beautiful day in servanthood to Truth, Love and Mercy.

wa min Allah at-taufiq

Hate has no place in Islam

Love will show the Way

Made in the Nur (Light) of the Best of Creation - You

12. A Faded Rose in the Garden of the Prophet

Oh my rose,

If your colour has faded,

And your scent diminished,

If the weather of your world

Has been unkind,

And your beauty worn by time,

Come to me.

For I am created to tend to you,

With gentle ministration

And mercy.

So come to me,

O’ faded rose,

Come to me.

I shan’t give up on you,

For how can I?

When you were made for me,

And I for you.

And If you know me,

Then you would know that

I am one who is not wont

To take my Lord’s gifts

For granted.

Who amongst us have done no wrong? Ah, perhaps the souls of children? But for the rest of us, life is like trawling through mud. We are gonna get dirty. We are gonna get messy.

So we turn to spirituality and those who were made to care for us. They need not still be living, indeed death appears to make them far more powerful than we can imagine, to quote one Ben Kenobi.

Thank you for dropping by today, sunshine. You too perhaps, may be a faded rose. But faded, ragged or torn of petals, you are still a rose, a shining beacon to the Angels that attend to their work daily, unseen by us. So do not lose hope. For you are made in the Nur (light) of the Best of Creation.

wa min Allah at-taufiq.

Flower on Fire, Glory of the Garden,

FLOWER ON FIRE

Flower on fire,

Flaming white,

Soul in desire

Lost in pride.

Flower on fire,

In plain sight,

A secret nightingale

Born in flight.

Flower on fire,

Burning at night,

Love and potion,

Pride has died.

Flower on fire

In burning alchemy,

Calling man to God

With living poetry.

Flower on fire,

Mercy to creation,

Glory of the garden,

Prose of compassion.

'tis a beautiful Sabbath, sunshine. Enjoy your day.

wa min Allah at-taufiq

The Cathedral of the Heart - Veneration of the Prophet Muhammad Habibullah

51. Share with Me!

God created because

He wanted to be known,

And He was most loving

Of all upon the first,

Being Muhammad.

Bringing Muhammad

Closer to Him than any other,

As Muhammad delighted in His Presence,

And He was delighted with Muhammad.

And in His most Munificent,

He created creation

To share in His pleasure

Of his Most Beloved.

So God is speaking unto your soul,

Share with Me! Share with Me!

How beautiful is He!

How noble is He!

How praise worthy is He!

So be not reticent

In your expressions

Of delight in God’s

Chosen One!

Sing! Sing! Dance! Dance!

Dance, fools, dance!

If this is how the Servant is,

My heart, my mind, my eyes

Stops at the point of creation,

And cannot even conjecture,

The Wonder that is God…

There are those who profess the faith of Islam, but cannot stand the veneration that many, many Muslims give to the founder of Islam, Muhammad the Messenger of God. They say that such veneration tantamount to giving God a partner, when God Himself said that He is One, Absolute and there is no god but Himself. It is a continuing rebellion, so we must continue our own undying rejection of such misguided and childish perception of the nature of God and the nature of Muhammad. After 3 years, the following prose is recorded against this 'dogma'...

Share with Me! Part 2

God is of the Unknowable Essence,

So each stature and station

That we discover of Muhammad,

Only raises the Unknowable Essence

Of God that much higher

And that much further.

So there is no possible heresy

In the veneration of Muhammad Habibullah,

But those who seek calamity

Shall verily find calamity.

As they continue to give

The Essence of God

Their own limitations.

And this I say condescendingly

From the library of the mind,

They have yet to read what

Can be read in the Cathedral of the Heart,

Where in truth,

There is only Ahad

And Ahmad.

My brother tells me that only a Sufi will understand the prose I am sharing today. But I told him that I cannot pick and choose my readers.

Cathedral of the Heart in Medina, and in you.

Have a wonderful day, sunshine. 'Tis Friday.

wa min Allah at-taufiq.

P/S - Other Posts on the Veneration of the Prophet Muhammad-
The Prophet & Sir Kishan Prasad Shad (1864-1940)
My Candle & the Prophet's SuperNova - Escaping the Gravitational Pull of the Sun
Veneration of Muhammad, a Love beyond Religious Dogma - Prose of Ramadhan Part 30
The Riddle - Who Am I? Prose of Ramadhan Part 37

The Prophet's Birthday, Jacob's Ladder and a Can of Red Paint

On the Prophet's Birthday I Borrowed Jacob's Ladder

I was awaken this morning by Jacob,

And he said, "Here, take my ladder, old chum!"

With a can of red paint I climbed the ladder high into the sky

And there I found the Big Heart

Floating amongst the clouds.

Trembling on the ladder I then wrote the message...

"Happy 1441st Birthday, o' Prophet!"

.
Okay, okay, before anyone raises the issue, I am aware that the birth of Muhammad the Prophet of God is accepted to be either in 570 a.d. or 571 a.d. But you know, that is just technicalities. The fact is he was born a looooong time ago. Happy birthday, my Prophet!
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And before any aspirant of the path says that his actual creation must precede the creation of the World (Heaven, Hell, Angels all included therein) in relation to the belief in the Nur ("Light") of Muhammad, well, I am not talking about the creation of the NurMuhammad, am I? We are of course celebrating the mortal birth of Muhammad from the blessed union of Aminah and Abdullah.
.

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Last night, on the eve of his birthday, I attended a congregation of pointy-hatted gentlemen who were praising and singing their love for Muhammad, Beloved of God. I didn't stay too long though , but I am reliably informed that the sighing love and affectionate rapture that drifted from the mortal lips ascended the sanctified gardens of heaven and the valley of Buraqs (they are queer looking heavenly steeds). But most importantly, I am sure that the Prophet himself heard them.

.

O' sunshine. Do not forget your Prophets! Whatever they have endeavoured, whatever they are still endeavouring, they are doing it all for you. Blessed be Muhammad, my own beloved Prophet. My love and light, the Red Rose of Divine Intimacy, Vessel of Mercy, Sign of the Lord that made me know of the Lord. Ah. But you know of this already, my friends, my brothers and sisters - I seek your guidance and companionship always.

.

.

Pax Taufiqa.

No to Angel Cookies, No to Devil Cakes

I am tired of dreaming, so I am parking my soul here for the night. I hope you don’t mind. I tried to read your thoughts, but you are unknown to me. I am slipping, falling between the words that I write here. I am clambering up the paragraphs of your life. You say you are a footnote in my life, but I am neither a book nor a chapter. I am unwritten until you write me. I am lost until you guide me home to you. I am the bread you have yet to bake, the man you have yet to marry, the flame you have yet to spark. I am a friend unlike any other.

I am tired of waiting, so I am going to hide in your pantry. How cozy it is in here. You say you don’t like pickles but I see you have dozens of jars stashed. You say you don’t like living, but I see you have enough instant noodles hoarded to last you through at least one lifetime. You say you are hurt, but when you passed by the pantry door you looked graceful as ever. I smiled wondering how you did not hear me snoring. I am sleeping in this second paragraph, and wondering where my words will take me now. This is the end of your pantry, but below is the beginning of a new journey. We are going places!

I am tired of crying, so I am going to empty my lake of tears. And I will fill it up with premium chocolate at reasonable prices. I shan’t take what the Angels are offering as they do not understand the value of money. And I shan’t take what the Devil is offering, as he tends to burn all his cookies. Oh no. I will wait for you to open your stall in my heart. And I will pay whatever you desire for your chocolate candies, even if I have to ransom the Kingdom of Shams in a golden fleet. Do you not see them already? They are at your harbour, anchored between the forested hills of old Kentucky and Mount Kinabalu.

Death is near, but my birth is nearer still. I saw a light and it was veiled. I came to it and drew the veil away to reveal the source - And it was a rose of many endless petals. From the leaves radiated beams of light of many hues. Within the rose is a blackhole with a sign posted on its entrance. The sign says “Sigh, for this is before the creation of Time’. The tail of my turban unfurled further than I could reach, and it fell into a sea of clapping waves, but the sea was green, not blue. I tried to hold back the light, but it came upon me all the sudden, and my reason was undone, my sanity kidnapped. I have nothing left to hold onto but you.

.
This is not a dream, but merely an exercise in writing. Nor is my life any more real, being only an exercise in living. But it feels oh so true. Especially when I am with you.

Pax Taufiqa.

Footnote:
Sketch #1 is from Amir Adam Mohd Zahurein
Sketch #2 is just done yesterday but only scanned today (network scan been buggy of late).

Red Heifer and Red Sulphur, Grand Nature and Beautiful Gesture - the Jihad, the Ego and You

14. And a Quiet Day it was
I set sail on Mercy’s Ocean,
And a quiet day it was,
With nets spun of golden thread,
And the wind behind us,
We headed west.

Fear would have filled me
As blackness rose to greet us,
Until my look-out cried,
“Look to the stern!”
And I glanced back to see
That we had the Sun in tow
Like a kite in the sky.



.
The above prose is what you may call a GRAND prose. Befitting perhaps for a mystic commencing his quest for the holy grail, the red sulphur and maybe even the red heifer.

THE GRAND JIHAD. But really, that great struggle, that GRANDEST OF JIHAD (Jihad ul-Akbar) is not very grand really. Certainly not in the way dreamt by arm-chair generals and warrior priests…

6. War
The war with the Ego is not the clash of great armies,
It is a war of small firefights and drive-by shootings.
And if the absence of a great battle disappoints you
Verily, the first skirmish is already lost!

MUNDANE DAILY STRUGGLE. It is the daily struggle between your heart and your ego, between your mind and your nafs (desires)… Should I have that extra teaspoon of sugar? It’s a Saturday anyways, I am sure no handicap would be wanting the parking space!... I could pay him today, but really, the bank is so far away. Oh never mind, I will just do it tomorrow… or maybe the day after that. So you see, really mundane and boring struggle. The path is not intended for those desiring recognition. Each strand of hair on your body must desire the opposite... anonymity, silence and nothingness, and without pretensions... (The way is not easy. Whoever said it was?)

2. Permission To Be Good, Ya Sayeedi! II
If you desire to make grand gestures,
Join an opera company.

Here, it is toil!
Mundane grind!
Day after day after day!

Allah! Rasulullah!
Give us joy
In our anonymity,
Though the world
May call us
Boring old farts!

BUT BEAUTY… has its own reasons and passions. And to deny the beauty of the path is also to deny an essence of the journey. And God has never attracted mankind with the ugly and deceitful, which is repugnant to us. Always He has sent someone of beautiful passions, to speak words of beauty and call upon us to do beautiful deeds of charity and love. This is the way of all faiths. A prose was recorded of such a man...

4. The Roadbuilder
I build roads,
Not walls.
For my message
Is peace,
Not war.

I grow roses
Not weeds,
For my message
Is beauty,
Not deceit.

SO I BELIEVE THAT…. there shall always be a place for beauty in the path. Such beauty may be grand and awe-inspiring, such as the Sun in a sinner's poem. But other beauty may be manifested more subtly, like the shy smile of your young niece. Or the sight of your son making friends with a stray cat.

Have a nice Monday, sunshine.

Pax Taufiqa.

If you are curious for related postings on jihad just search 'jihad' in the searchbox on top right corner. There are about 8 previous write-ups.
Poems - And a Quiet Day it was is from Chapter 23 entitled ‘My Lord has Answered me’ (Mar 2007) War is from Chapter 19 entitled ‘Tiramesu’ (circa 2006)
The Roadbuilder is from Chapter 17 entitled ‘East of Albion’ (circa January 2006)
Permission To Be Good, Ya Sayeedi! II is from Chapter 5 entitled ‘The Profane & the Profound’ (circa September 2004)

The Dot Tablet

I heard Katy Perry's song 'Firework' playing and it was like someone knocking on my heart. I pressed my ear to the door and asked "Who is it?" A gentle voice replied, "It is I, Muhammad".

.

*Sigh*

.

"What do you want of me? Go find someone worthy of your attention." I said to the voice behind the door.

.

*Sigh*

.

"How can I, when my Lord entrusted you to me?"

.

*Sigh*

.

I collapsed beside the entrance of my heart crying, "Oh Prophet, forgive me..."

.....................

We all love our prophets. We may not understand them entirely and at times we get confused by the teaching of preachers. And of course we often delude ourselves. Thankfully, although we cannot describe 'good' but we know it when we feel it, and the prophets feel very, very good indeed. Yet, no matter how high we place the prophets in the firmament of our soul, we know it is never high enough, for the divine station of prophets is in God's hands. And He Praises His best servants wonderfully.

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I am a blubbering fool and often cry thinking of him. But the tears are not tears of sadness, only that when we feel so blessed, that no words seem adequate to describe him. In that moment, tears become a wonderous lake of reflection, and we sit contented by the lakeside, looking upon the reflection of our prophets, contemplating, "How wonderful art thee..."

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Have a good week, sunshine!

.

Pax Taufiqa.

She is the Weather of my World

I have a secret summer,
Awaken in the sunrise of her soul,
Bright and warm like an eternal sun
Rising over the spoils of my wicked soil,

I have a secret autumn,
As she comes to rest upon my shoulder,
Like leaves withering and falling,
Desiring words of hope and healing.

I have a secret winter,
Neither bitter nor cold,
But white like the white of her eyes,
And I am lost in her dunes and folds,
For there is warmth here, and I turn away
From hearth and home, finding
Mine in her snowflakes, melting
On the warmth of a winter morning.

I have a secret spring,
Sprung with desperate release
From a rich earth, as seeds of
Hope and healing burst into flower,
And from her lips words tumble,
Sharp as needles, sweet like nectar.

For you see,
I am in love and
Have met a girl,

She is no secret at all,
She is the weather of my world.

.................................................

From the chaper entitled 'How Beautiful Love is', circa Oct 2009

I look into her eyes as I would look out of the window. To see how fair or rainy the day would be. I think it is best to be prepared whatever the weather... But in her torrential storm, an umbrella won't be of any use at all. I am not complaining, Heche. I am just sharing. Hehehe.

Salams,

Taufiq.

The Whirling Verse Part 3/3

I am now
Both the verse
And the body
That sings and spins,
So like the Sea of Din
Lapping on the Shores of Sin,
Where does Love now ends
And my lie begins?

The reply: O’ little fool!
What foolishness is this?
God has no end.

........................................................

Well, this is the 3rd and final part 3 of ‘The Whirling Verse’. As you can see, being the lazy person that I am, I merely overlapped the 1st sketch with the 2nd sketch. I think it is a good composition, and I hope you like it. Click here for Part 1 and Part 2, if you have nothing better to do.

To my untrained eye, the picture looks messy but pretty. I like to think that Angels have a similar bird’s eye view of us human beings. Messy but pretty. Clay vessels animated by the Breath of God. Fragile and filled with all sorts of unruly passions. The Angels asked God, “What is this thing that You have created?”, but God simply replied, “I know what you know not.” Oh, thank You very much, God, that really clarified the matter.

Hehehe. Very funny, Taufiq.

In fact, I find myself scrutinizing the reflection on the mirror, often asking God the very same question. But the answer I hear is different.

So we are creatures made of earth and water. But where do the ancient hide their greatest horde of gold and wealth, if not buried deep in the bosom of the earth? So you see, perhaps on the face of it, we are nothing. But in that nothingness, there is Something. It is in you, my friend, marked ‘X’. There is a map and a guide to the secret treasure, called the al Quran and Sunnah. There are also professional treasure-hunters still offering their services, and they can aid you.

They will help you find the treasure. The buried gold. That hidden secret Something. But in order to find that Something in you, you must first become nothing. In that quest they will also help you.

God Bless the treasure-hunters of God. God Bless you, and Hurrah for the Green Man!

Pax Taufica.

The Whirling Verse Part 2

I was once a verse
Then I was given a body
And the body began to whirl,
As the Robe and the Rose
Began to unfurl,
All in accord
For his Loving God.

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This is Part 2 of 3 of the sketchverse called 'The Whirling Verse'. I am going somewhere with this, you'll see. Part 1 is clickable here.

It appears I have two Eidul Fitri open houses for tomorrow. Bless the generous little souls who are adamant to make me fatter. And bless me for being their willing supplicant. Hehehe.

Pax Taufica.

Even the mightiest of trees began life in a tiny little seed

That’s my son, Mikhail. I guess he would love to accompany me almost anywhere. So long as there is something in it for him. Once he said to me, “Papa, if you love someone, you would die for that someone!” Precocious, isn’t he? Anyhow, I was curious as to his new-found romantic sensibility and asked, “Well, Mika, who would you die for?” He was thoughtful for a second and replied, “Anyone, Papa. Anyone really.” I was just thinking how much we can learn from a mere child, but then he continued, “So long as they pay me!”

I asked Mika why he doesn’t tidy up after himself in my house. Monetizing the issue, he replied, “You know, Papa, I would, if you pay me RM10 every day.” I counter-argued, “Mika, maybe you should be the one paying me. After all, I pay your teacher who teaches you twice a week in Kumon. But I teach you everyday to be a good boy.” Without batting an eyelid, my son replied, “Papa, you will get paid when you get to heaven.” I have apparently conceived a religious capitalist.

He is also a strong advocate of the gold standard. He once shared with his long-suffering grandmother his monetary views, “You know what, Nenek? I don’t like paper money anymore. Do you know they are worthless? I like gold now. Gold lasts forever.” Then he finally notices the gold pendant that his grandmother always wears and exclaimed, “Hey! Is that gold?”

He suffers quite a bit, being my son. Again and again, I would question him, “Who is your boss, Mika?". And without fail his answer would be, “God and Nabi Muhammad”, Or sometimes, a little impatiently, “Nabi Muhammad and God, Papa!” I like to ask him simply because I love his answer, and he gives me the same reply because he knows I like it. He is thoughtful that way.

Mika is also a religious innovator. In the nursery game of scissors-paper-stones which he often plays with Heche, he would create alternative hand gestures, which includes a bazooka, ten thousand bazookas, or infinity times bazookas. Sometimes it can also be a universe-sized dinasour or robot. Heche can still win against him though, if she can think fast. But in the end, she inevitably loses when Mika brings out the biggest gun in his arsenal and cries out “God and Nabi Muhammad!”. He doesn’t like to lose, my son.

Mika has five cousins but I think he is most fond of the youngest boy, Rafael. He told me one day, “I love Rafael, Papa, even though he sometimes bites me.” I then asked him, “If Ralf likes to bite you, why do you love him?”. He replied, “Because. Papa, he’s the best bolster!”

I do not think I will win Dad of the Year award. But Mika will always be Son of the Year to me. Often I would ask him, “Who’s my best boy?” To which he always replies, “Me.” Then I would ask him why. With a world-weary sigh he would give the same explanation, “Because I am your only son, Papa…”

Kahlil Gibran, that old Lebanese lover-boy once wrote that our children are like arrows which we must ultimately shoot from our bows to take flight according to their whim and desires, to fly in the hands of God/Love that we must trust best. It is hard to let go, I know. But are we ever in control even of our own fate?

I look at my son and try not to worry too much. Because in all the children born from my generation, I discern a glimmer of promise more promising than their parents, wisdom beyond their years, and an inner grace incubating in a small and seemingly fragile figure. But even the mightiest of trees began life in a tiny little seed.

Thank you for reading my ramblings today.

Pax Taufica.

The Gates of Love

Love is not all joy.
It is also to learn how to cry.
So disdain not sadness,
For of all the gates of the House,
It is through Love
That sadness enters
And departs.

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If you want to love, you must learn tears and sorrow. Sadness and bleak tomorrows. I have cried my fair share, but when weighed in comparison, my cup of joy floweth over...

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Smiling, laughing or crying, if it is in the name of Muhammad, Habibullah, the Red Rose in the Garden of Creation, it is all worth it. Nay, its worth will only be understood later, when you and I meet and greet on top of Mount Qaf. Until then, Salams!

.

Hehehe.

My Mum & Mika (Ramadan & Syawal)

Ramadhan left, leaving me
In the cradle of Syawal,
And though pleased with
My new nursemaid,
I will miss my old one
And look forward
To see her again,
Next year.

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Earlier today, I accompanied my aunt to visit her sister's grave. Her late sister had a wonderful zest for life, and though she has passed on, to me she is as real, or perhaps even more real than me. She was known to be kind and generous, tolerant and merciful. My son, Mikhail who accompanied us, dutifully helped to wipe her tombstone. She also happens to be my mother.

On this Eidul Fitri of 2010, my thoughts wander afar. Drifting in the sweet memory of my mum. Then, I look at my son, and my heart is filled with hope for the future which will be his promise.

May God bless your past and future, your parents and your children. For you and I, we are but a link between two golden chain.

Salams and Eid Mubarak!

No.3 If You see Me crying

If you see me crying,
In the midst of
A crowded restaurant,
Don’t worry.
If you see me in tears
While driving,
Don’t worry.
If you see me walking
While tears run down
My cheek,
Fret not.

For I am only in
The midst of remembrance,
In the clutches of a
Jealous love that
Won’t let me go,
But a love yet to be
Consummated in the
Presence of my beloved.

For I am here,
And he is there,

But when he is
Somewhere else,
The truth is
Though I am here,
I am really nowhere.

I have written songs,
I have grafted poems
Upon the lifeless limbs
Of my aching body,
When loneliness
And nothingness which
Drowns me, apart from him,
Leaves me disconsolate
And miserable.

In a breath, he seems
So near, but he isn’t!

But if you see me smiling,
Alone all by myself,
In the crowd of unknowing humanity,
Know that I feel he is near,
And that what is the reality
Which you perceive is yours,
And not mine,

For in my reality,
In the drawing of a smile
From a secret pleasure,
Abu Bakar is with me,
Omar is with me,
Usman is with me,
Ali is with me,
Salman al-Farsi, Jaafar as-Sadiq
And dear Abu Yazid al-Bistami
Are all with me,
With my Masters, with the saints,
With angels whirling upon the leaves
Of trees, while little birds of green feathers
Dash and fly about me.

How happy and ashamed am I then,
To be in the company of such ghosts…

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From the chapter entitled 'The Ignorance of Piety and the Knowledge of Sin'

A Layla Majnun Exposition

I am foretold, o’ Swallow

In this love for you,
I am foretold of a joyous union,

But Layla,
I am besotted by you only in separation,
Whereof am I to love you…
Sunken in a deep ocean
Where there is only you and no other?

Not for myself do I sing;
That nothing brings me pleasure
Than to be separated from my love
And to behold her,…
The Sun of my days
The Moon of my gladness
The scent of her Beauty found,
In a secret garden of Roses.

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(No. 9 from the chapter entitled 'Tiramesu'. I must have been feeling good when writing this.)