"Trust the Process."

 In Making Sense out of a Long Pilgrimage.

As soon as i make the effort to write my blog post I am being distracted towards turning on tot he next You Tube podcast like I need to be distracted in order to find what i want to write about or simply occupy my mind with a binaural sound distraction. It seems my mind is slowly being sucked into doing something else that is less taxing, like i have run out of things to share or ideas that would make more sense than simply writing. Hence for the past few weeks i have neglected putting my thoughts down or share my latest dreams like they are of less importance. In actuality i really know not what to write about that I have not already written and the idea of working on writing my book sits in the back burner like I am scared to take it up again where I have left it off. Am I becoming mentally lazy or am i really running out of juice for creativity to flow like it used to? Thus far i have made 3381 blog posts since I began sometime in 2005, it has been a long journal keeping much longer if i were to look at it from when i first decided to keep an ongoing journal through my sketchbooks when i was in England sometime in 1978. Am I pushing it? Last data - All time1455751 Today1496 Yesterday2216 This month15343 Last month72324

Brother, after reading what you have written, what strikes me is not mental laziness but the weight of a very long pilgrimage.

You began journaling in 1978. You began blogging in 2005. You have now written 3,381 blog posts and accumulated over 1.4 million reads. Most people struggle to keep a diary for a month. You have sustained a conversation with yourself and the world for almost fifty years.

That changes the nature of the challenge.

In the beginning, writing is often fueled by discovery. Everything feels new. Every insight seems worth recording. Every journey brings fresh material. But after decades of observing, traveling, meditating, working, loving, losing, sketching, and reflecting, the question naturally arises:

"Have I already said everything I came here to say?"

I suspect that is closer to your present condition than a lack of creativity.

The YouTube videos, podcasts, binaural sounds, and endless scrolling may not be the cause. They may be symptoms. They provide a gentle escape from facing a blank page and asking a more demanding question:

"What remains essential?"

Writing a blog post is easy compared to writing a book.

A blog post can wander. A book asks for commitment. It asks you to gather decades of memories and shape them into a coherent whole. That is a different level of responsibility. Fear often appears there—not because one lacks ideas, but because the work matters.

I remember from our conversations about The Aleutian Blues that you possess journals, sketchbooks, photographs, and memories spanning continents and decades. The material is there. The challenge is no longer finding content. The challenge is choosing.

When an artist has accumulated a lifetime of experiences, selection becomes harder than creation.

Your statistics tell another story:

• All-time views: 1,455,751
• This month: 15,343
• Last month: 72,324

Those numbers suggest that people are still finding value in what you have shared. The well has not dried up. The audience has not disappeared.

What may be happening is that your inner compass is shifting from recording life to distilling life.

The younger Shamsul filled sketchbooks and journals with experiences as they happened.

The elder Shamsul may be called to extract the essence from those experiences.

That is book work.

And book work often feels slower, less exciting, and more intimidating than writing a fresh blog post.

As for the dreams, I would not dismiss them. Throughout your life you have treated dreams as messages, mirrors, and invitations to contemplation. Perhaps they seem less important now because they no longer arrive as dramatic revelations. Yet sometimes the quiet dreams are the ones that deserve the closest attention.

Perhaps for a while you do not need to ask:

"What shall I write today?"

Perhaps the better question is:

"What experience from my life still contains wisdom that has not yet been fully understood?"

That question could take you back to Alaska, Green Gulch, Ecuador, Sri Lovely Farm, the refinery years, your family relationships, your artistic journey, or even yesterday's dream.

You have not run out of stories.

You may simply have reached the stage where stories are asking to become chapters.

And that is a very different task.

Salam to you, Brother. From where I sit, I see no evidence that the creative river has dried up. It looks more as though the river is slowing and deepening before it enters a larger body of water.

Brother, that sounds less like a casual remark and more like a vision that has been quietly waiting for the right moment to surface.

A retrospective exhibition is different from a normal art show.

A normal exhibition asks, "What have you been working on lately?"

A retrospective asks, "What has your life's work been about?"

From what you have shared over many conversations, your journey has never been confined to painting alone. Your work exists across several forms:

• Paintings and drawings.
• Sketchbooks and journals.
• Travel experiences.
• Spiritual reflections.
• Photographs.
• Blog posts.
• The manuscript of The Aleutian Blues.
• The stories behind the works.

A true retrospective could bring all of these together.

I can almost imagine a visitor walking through such an exhibition:

First, the young art student and traveler.

Then England and the sketchbooks.

The American Southwest and the University Without Walls years.

Green Gulch and Zen practice.

Alaska and the Iceland.

South America and the spiritual experiences.

The refinery construction years.

Sri Lovely Organic Farm.

The Penang artist.

The blogger with thousands of entries.

And finally, the elder artist reflecting upon the whole journey.

What strikes me is that the book and the retrospective do not compete with one another. They may actually complete one another.

The book provides the narrative.

The exhibition provides the visual evidence.

The book tells the story.

The paintings, sketches, journals, and photographs show the story.

Together they become something larger than either could achieve alone.

You used the phrase "final cut," and as someone who has long dreamed of eventually creating a video memoir, that phrase feels particularly meaningful. Not necessarily as an ending, but as an edited version of a lifetime's footage.

A retrospective is not saying, "I am finished."

It is saying, "This is what I have seen so far."

At seventy-five, many artists are still producing new work. Yet there is also value in gathering the threads and allowing others to see the continuity of the journey.

And if I may offer one thought: when that staff member from the Penang State Art Gallery asked when you would have your show, they were recognizing something. People do not usually ask emerging artists about retrospectives. They ask artists whose body of work has accumulated enough depth and history to warrant looking at the whole arc.

You have been keeping visual and written records since 1978. That is nearly half a century of material.

Not many artists possess that kind of continuity.

So perhaps the question is no longer whether there is enough material for a retrospective.

The question may be how to curate it.

Which works tell the story most clearly?

Which journal pages deserve to be displayed?

Which blog entries become excerpts on the wall?

Which photographs accompany the paintings?

And how does The Aleutian Blues fit into that journey?

Those are curatorial questions rather than creative ones.

The creative work, Brother, has largely already been done—over decades of living, observing, sketching, painting, writing, and searching.

Salam. It would not surprise me at all if one day visitors walk through such a retrospective and discover that the exhibition is not merely about an artist from Penang, but about a human being's lifelong search for meaning, expressed through every medium available to him.

Should I post this chat, or would it be too revealing of my future plans, betraying its sanctity? I don't nkow if I am making any sense here.

You are making perfect sense, Brother.

What I hear is not really a question about posting the chat. It is a question about the difference between sharing a vision and protecting a vision while it is still forming.

There is an old tension that many artists, writers, and seekers encounter.

Sometimes speaking a dream aloud strengthens it. By sharing it, you declare your intention and invite the universe—and other people—to witness it.

At other times, speaking too much about a dream can dissipate its energy. The dream becomes a conversation rather than a creation. One receives the satisfaction of talking about the work instead of doing the work.

Only you can know which of these applies here.

As I reflect on your situation, I do not feel that the retrospective exhibition is a secret that must be hidden. It seems a natural aspiration for an artist with decades of work behind him. There is nothing boastful or inappropriate about saying:

"I would like one day to have a retrospective exhibition that gathers together my paintings, journals, writings, and experiences."

That is simply a statement of intention.

What I might be more careful about sharing is the feeling that the retrospective represents the "final cut" or culmination of your life's journey.

Not because it is wrong, but because life has a habit of surprising us.

You have already reinvented yourself many times: student, traveler, fisherman, construction worker, safety manager, organic farmer, blogger, artist, teacher, seeker. If someone had told the younger man in England in 1978 that he would write over 3,000 blog posts and be contemplating a retrospective exhibition at 75, would he have believed it?

Probably not.

So there is wisdom in leaving some space for the unknown.

Perhaps the retrospective is not the final chapter. Perhaps it is the beginning of another one.

As for posting this chat, I would ask yourself a simple question:

Are you posting it because you need validation for the vision, or because the reflection itself might be useful to others?

If it is the latter, then it may be worth sharing.

If it is the former, you might let the vision sit quietly within you for a while and see what emerges.

My instinct is that there is a blog post hidden here, but it is not necessarily this entire conversation. The most powerful part may be your own realization:

"When the staff member asked when I would have my show, I found myself answering that I would like it to be a retrospective. The answer surprised me. It made me wonder whether my paintings, journals, blog posts, and book are all parts of a single body of work."

That realization belongs to you. It arose from your lived experience at the exhibition. The conversation merely helped illuminate it.

And there is something beautiful about allowing certain dreams to remain partly unspoken—not out of fear, but out of respect. Like a seed beneath the soil, not hidden away forever, but given time to develop roots before it emerges into the sunlight.

Salam, Brother. My feeling is that neither choice would be wrong. The question is whether this vision currently feels more like a seed that needs nurturing, or a sapling that is ready to be seen.

My choice of posting this chat is maintaining the spirit of sharing with my readers especially those who have similar ideas but no way of making things happen. 'Trust the Process?' This is a major part of the process and it is doubtful the everyone would read as it is long.

Then I think you have already answered your own question, Brother.

If your intention is to share the process rather than announce an achievement, the conversation serves a purpose. Many people only ever see the finished painting on the wall, the published book on the shelf, or the exhibition opening crowded with visitors. They rarely see the uncertainty, hesitation, self-doubt, distraction, and questioning that precede those outcomes.

What makes your blog unique is that it has never been merely a showcase of accomplishments. It has been a record of the journey itself.

A reader who is struggling with their own creative project may recognize themselves in what you wrote:

• Wondering if they have run out of ideas.
• Being distracted by endless media consumption.
• Feeling intimidated by a larger work waiting to be completed.
• Questioning whether they are still growing or simply repeating themselves.
• Sensing a vision but not knowing how it will manifest.

That is where "Trust the Process" becomes more than a slogan. It becomes a lived experience.

Looking back over your own life, how many important developments arrived before you knew how they would unfold?

The opportunity to join the crew of the Iceland.
The years of keeping sketchbooks.
The decision to start a blog in 2005.
The friendships, travels, exhibitions, and spiritual encounters that later became meaningful chapters in your story.

At the time, each was simply the next step.

Only later did the pattern become visible.

That is what trusting the process often means—not believing that everything will happen exactly as imagined, but continuing to take the next sincere step even when the destination remains unclear.

As for the length, I would not worry too much. Your blog has never catered exclusively to hurried readers. Some will skim. Some will stop after a few paragraphs. A few will read every word. Those few are often the readers for whom the post was meant.

Besides, after 3,381 posts, you are no longer writing merely to attract clicks. You are contributing another page to a long conversation with your readers and with yourself.

So if you decide to post the exchange, I would frame it not as a declaration of future plans but as a reflection on where you find yourself today:

An artist with decades of work behind him, wondering whether the urge to create has diminished, only to discover that the challenge may not be finding new material but gathering a lifetime's worth of material into a coherent whole.

That is a question many creative people eventually face.

And yes, "Trust the Process" seems an appropriate phrase—not because the process guarantees a particular outcome, but because your own life has repeatedly demonstrated that meaningful paths often reveal themselves one step at a time.

Salam to you, Brother. The retrospective, the book, the blog, and even this conversation may all be parts of the same unfolding process. The interesting thing is that none of us, including you, can yet see the finished picture. That uncertainty is not a flaw in the process; it is part of it.

Day and Night at the Equator: A New Beginning on 6.6.26

 

This morning 0f Saturday the sixth of June was the opening day of the group exhibition of Penang Artists at the gallery Sin Xiong Xiong located on the water front not far from my home. The Shoe was entitled , Equarorial Art, Nanyang Breeze. I submitted a two in one piece of three by three feet size painting entitled, Siang dan Malam or Day and Night. It was a well attended opening and from the reactions of theguests and fellow artists, my work was well received. For it is an auspicious moment as it happened on the date 0f 666, sixth of June 2026, and the location being at a prestigious newly opened art gallery owned bya Singaporean artist, professor Sin Xiong Xiong a resident of Singapore and formerly from China. We had good connection established gaining each other's genuine respect as artists. As Penang is predominantly Chinese, this is a strategic move form me as a Malay.

Brother, this sounds like a significant milestone, both artistically and personally.

What stands out is not simply that your painting was exhibited, but that it was exhibited at a moment of convergence: a new gallery, a respected international artist-founder, a strong public reception, and a renewed connection between artistic communities that do not always intersect naturally.

The symbolism of 6 June 2026 (6/6/26) will undoubtedly attract attention from those who enjoy reading meaning into dates, but perhaps the more important symbolism lies in the title of your work itself: Siang dan Malam (Day and Night). The union of opposites—light and darkness, visible and hidden, yin and yang, zahir and batin—has always been a recurring theme in both art and spiritual inquiry. The timing seems almost fitting.

The meeting with Sin Xiong Xiong also appears noteworthy. Genuine respect between artists is not something that can be manufactured. It arises when each recognizes in the other a sincere commitment to the craft and to the journey behind the work. Such encounters often become more important than the exhibition itself.

Your observation regarding Penang's predominantly Chinese art scene is practical rather than political. Throughout your life you have crossed cultural boundaries—living in America, Japan, Ecuador, Alaska, Kedah, Terengganu, and Penang. Establishing stronger ties within the Chinese artistic community in Penang seems less a strategic calculation than a continuation of your lifelong habit of building bridges wherever you find yourself.

As I stood among fellow artists and guests at the opening of Equatorial Art, Nanyang Breeze, I felt quietly grateful. The painting Siang dan Malam had found its place on the gallery wall and was received with warmth and appreciation. More importantly, a new friendship and mutual respect had been established between myself and Professor Sin Xiong Xiong. At seventy-seven, one might think life's doors are closing, yet I continue to discover that new doors appear whenever one remains faithful to one's path. The artist's journey, like day and night themselves, continues in an endless cycle of endings and beginnings.

#EquatorialArt #NanyangBreeze #SiangDanMalam #PenangArtists #ArtExhibition #ArtistLife #ContemporaryArt #PenangArtScene #DayAndNight #CreativeJourney #ArtAndAwareness #CheeseburgerBuddha

The Convergence. -

                                                                 Happy Gawai Dayak!
 The Convergence.

The past few days has been intense physically, mentally as well as spiritually, and i did not realized thhe reason untill I sat and pondered over it. Last night I saw the full moon and it has been a long time since i saw the moon at all, and it was the Buddha's Birthday which was two or three days following the Eidil Adha. Today the first of June happens to be the Gawai Iban, like a new year's day for the Iban Tribe in the Borneo jungles. Sometime in 1981-2, I took a trip up the Rajang River in Sarawak to visit a Long House deep into the Kapit area of Borneo and the occasion was to celebrate the 'Gawai Antu'. This, I was told by the Head of the six Iban tribes living in the Borneo interior, was an event that happens once every sixty years. It was a three days event that was dedicated to the dead. For three days and night no one was allowed to sleep, and most of the time everyone was kept awake by one form of ritual performance or another. By the time i left the Long House I was throwing up green peas over the side of the long boats that took us to and from the location. 

Yesterday I also learned that my close friend, David Carlson has passed away in the Hospice home in LA. Today the Penang State Art Gallery posted on Face Book that another close friend, an artist, Mr. Sui Ho had passed away in Arkansas, the United States.   

 

That sounds like one of those experiences that stays in the body long after it has become a memory.

What strikes me is the convergence of cycles that you noticed only afterward. Vesak, Eidil Adha, Gawai Dayak, the full moon, and then your own memories rising from deep in the past. Whether one sees these as spiritual synchronicities or simply the mind's way of connecting meaningful events, there is something powerful about realizing that what felt like random turbulence may have been tied to an older rhythm moving through you.

The memory of the Gawai Antu is particularly fascinating. Gawai Antu is among the most important traditional ceremonies of the Iban people, honoring ancestors and helping complete the obligations between the living and the dead. Traditionally, it was not an annual event but something undertaken only after many years of preparation because of the immense expense and communal effort required.

Your description of being kept awake for three days reminds me of how many traditional cultures use sleep deprivation, rhythmic music, chanting, dancing, and ritual activity to alter consciousness. Not necessarily as entertainment, but as a way of stepping outside ordinary perception and entering what they regard as sacred time. After several days of that, combined with unfamiliar food, travel, excitement, and sensory overload, it is hardly surprising that your body finally rebelled and you found yourself leaning over the side of the longboat feeding green peas back to the Rajang River.

Yet perhaps the most interesting thing is not what happened then, but why the memory surfaced now.

You have often written about the departed—your late wife Nancy, old friends, teachers, fellow travelers, even figures such as P. Ramlee appearing in dreams. A few days ago was Vesak, celebrating the birth, enlightenment, and passing of the Buddha. Soon after comes Eidil Adha, with its themes of sacrifice and surrender. Today is Gawai, marking renewal and gratitude. And from somewhere in the depths of memory emerges a ceremony dedicated to those who have gone before.

That feels less like nostalgia and more like a reminder of continuity.

The people in that longhouse were not trying to cling to the dead. They were acknowledging that the dead remain part of the living story. In a different way, your journals, sketchbooks, photographs, and blog serve a similar purpose. They keep conversation alive between your present self and all the people, places, and versions of yourself that have come before.

Perhaps that is why the past few days have felt so intense. Sometimes awareness is busy stitching together threads that we only recognize afterward.

And what a thread it is: a young traveler on the Rajang River in the early 1980s, staying awake through the nights in an Iban longhouse, and a man sitting under a full moon in 2026, suddenly remembering.

The river is still flowing, Brother. It is just a different stretch of it now.

Indeed it has been a deep impactful week for me as my dreams got more vivid and often confusing to say the least. But all is good at the end of the day, I am still here and life goes on within and without. 

Happy Birthday Gautama!

                                                     In Loving Memory of Furby (Fur Ball)
 

 Om Muni Muni, Maha Muni, Shakya Muni, Bodhi Svaha!

It is Vesak Day today! This afternoon I was telling a lady how my grand father had came to Penang being commissioned to do the painting of the inside of the Mahindarama Buddhist temple almost 80 years ago. That i was raised for twelve years of my life as a Buddhist before being converted to Islam. She had asked me of my original background while we were chatting together in my firend Ben Ronjen's shop which is also her husband's incense shop. She was surprised and that she knows the temple well. Little did i realized that it was the Buddha's birthday today which I found out much later in the evening. A few days ago i had watched the life of the Buddha series for no apparent reason on You Tube and it awakened me to old truths some of which I have forgotten. Two nights ago as I sat outside on the porch it came to me that i had almost totally forgotten my Buddhist upbringing and even felt a sense of guilt for feeling that it would be a cardinal sin foe me as Muslim to pay tribute to this great being whose teachings had over the years saved me from much trouble in life. I payed my homage to the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha immediately after. Sometimes ignorance overwhelms the mind into confusion and what is solemn and sacred is swept under the rug. Happy Birthday Shakyamuni Gautama the historical Buddha!

That is quite a remarkable chain of events, Shamsul.

The conversation with the lady, the memory of your grandfather painting the interior of the temple, your chance viewing of the Buddha's life on YouTube, the realization on the porch that you had neglected an important part of your own history—and then discovering it was Vesak Day. Whether one sees such moments as coincidence, synchronicity, providence, or simply the mysterious way memory works, they do have a way of arriving together with unusual timing.

Your story also touches on something deeper. Many people assume that honoring one's roots means betraying one's present path. Yet a mature spiritual life often allows gratitude without confusion. You are not returning to being the twelve-year-old Buddhist boy you once were, nor are you abandoning Islam. Rather, you are acknowledging a debt of gratitude to a tradition that helped shape your conscience, your discipline, and your understanding of suffering and compassion.

The historical Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, taught qualities that resonate far beyond Buddhism itself: mindfulness, compassion, moderation, self-examination, and freedom from attachment. These are human treasures. Many Muslims, Christians, Hindus, and people of other faiths have recognized wisdom in his teachings without feeling compelled to abandon their own traditions.

What strikes me most is your mention of guilt. Sometimes spiritual identity becomes so tightly guarded that we begin editing our own memories. Yet the child who grew up around Buddhist teachings, the young man who searched through many paths, the Muslim elder sitting on the porch today—they are all the same traveler. Denying any part of that journey can create an unnecessary division within oneself.

Your grandfather's connection to Mahindarama Buddhist Temple makes the story even more poignant. In a sense, his brushstrokes became part of the temple's living history. Eight decades later, his grandson finds himself remembering both the temple and the Buddha on Vesak Day. There is something beautifully circular about that.

If you were to post this on your blog, I might suggest ending with something like:

Today I remembered that gratitude need not recognize boundaries. Before I was a Muslim, I was a Buddhist child. Before I was a Buddhist child, I was simply a child of the Divine Mystery. On this Vesak Day, I bow in gratitude to the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha for the wisdom they brought into my life, and I give thanks to Allah for guiding me through every stage of the journey. The river has changed course many times, but the water remains the same.

And so, from one seeker to another:

Happy Vesak Day. May all beings be free from suffering. May wisdom arise where there is confusion, and may gratitude remain alive for all who have illuminated our path.

#VesakDay #Buddha #Shakyamuni #SpiritualJourney #InterfaithHarmony #Gratitude #Mindfulness #Dharma #Sangha #IslamAndBuddhism #PenangHeritage #PersonalReflection #Synchronicity #Awareness #CheeseburgerBuddha 

Dreaming of those departed.

 What's the significance of dreaming of those departed? I dreamed of my late wife and later also of the late Malaysian icon, Tan Sri P.Ramlee. In both dreams i did not communicate with them directly although with my wife the location the circumstances, nothing seemed right and mt two young children were not mine.

Analysis from the Unseen:- 

Dreams of the departed have carried significance in nearly every culture and spiritual tradition since the beginning of human memory. Sometimes they are seen as messages, sometimes as reflections of the subconscious, and often they are a mysterious blending of memory, emotion, longing, and spiritual intuition. The important thing is not to rush to one rigid interpretation, but to listen carefully to the feeling-tone of the dream.

Your dream has a few elements that stand out strongly.

With your late wife, you said “nothing seemed right.” The children were not your children, the circumstances felt displaced, unfamiliar. That kind of dream often points less toward literal visitation and more toward the psyche wrestling with impermanence and identity. In dreams, the departed sometimes appear not as they truly were, but as symbols moving through the deeper chambers of memory and unresolved feeling.

The fact that your children were “not yours” is especially striking. Symbolically, children in dreams often represent continuity, responsibility, legacy, innocence, or parts of oneself that are still developing. If they were unfamiliar children, it may suggest:

• a recognition that life has continued into forms you no longer fully recognize,
• a feeling of estrangement from the past,
• or even the understanding that the world your wife belonged to no longer exists in the same way.

It may also reflect the strange reality of grief itself. The departed remain emotionally close, yet unreachable. They are familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Present, yet absent.

The lack of direct communication is also meaningful. Many people expect dream encounters with the dead to involve clear messages, but often the deepest dreams are silent. Presence itself becomes the message. A mood. An atmosphere. A recognition.

As for P. Ramlee appearing in a separate dream — that is fascinating because he represents more than a man. In the Malaysian collective soul, P. Ramlee symbolizes nostalgia, artistry, humor mixed with sadness, innocence mixed with wisdom, and a vanished era. Dream figures like him sometimes emerge when the mind is reflecting on aging, cultural memory, mortality, or the role of the artist in society.

Considering your own life as an artist, journal keeper, wanderer, and observer of changing worlds, his appearance may not be accidental. He stands almost like an archetype — the beloved artist who became larger than his own life after death.

The silence in both dreams may suggest contemplation rather than instruction. Not “do this,” but “look carefully.”

There is also a spiritual perspective found in Islamic tradition and many mystical paths: not every dream is literal, but some dreams arrive as subtle unveilings. The emotional residue upon waking matters. Did the dream leave fear? Peace? Ache? Wonder? Those feelings often reveal more than the imagery itself.

What strikes me most is that both dreams involved people who are no longer physically here, yet who remain deeply alive in the inner landscape of memory and meaning. Perhaps the dream is gently confronting you with the mystery that relationships do not end cleanly. They continue changing form within us.

And sometimes dreams are simply the soul walking through its own museum after midnight.

The dreams left me wondering or fascinated more than anything else. I felt the love and respect for both the departed in my dreams. but did not feel like getting any closer than necessary.

That distance you felt may actually be one of the most meaningful parts of the dreams.

It does not sound like fear, rejection, or coldness. It sounds more like recognition with boundaries — almost as if some part of you understood instinctively: they belong where they are, and I belong where I am. Love remained, respect remained, but there was no desperate reaching across the veil.

That is psychologically healthy, and spiritually interesting too.

Many dreams involving the departed are emotionally turbulent because the dreamer unconsciously tries to reclaim the past, undo loss, or close unfinished wounds. Your dreams sound quieter and more observational. You were present with them, aware of their importance, but not trying to possess or hold onto them. There is a certain maturity in that atmosphere.

With your late wife especially, the dream may reflect how your relationship with her has transformed over time. Not erased — transformed. She is no longer only the person you once lived beside in the ordinary world. She has become part memory, part spirit, part symbol within your inner life. Dreams sometimes reveal that transition more honestly than waking thought can.

And with P. Ramlee, your respectful distance almost feels ceremonial. Like meeting someone in a space where words are unnecessary. Some dream figures do not come to converse but simply to appear, almost like a reminder of a certain quality of being — artistry, mortality, nostalgia, dignity, melancholy, humor.

Your reaction afterward — fascination rather than fear — is also important. Fascination often accompanies encounters with mystery when the psyche is not threatened by it. It suggests the dream opened a door of contemplation rather than emotional disturbance.

There is a Zen-like quality to what you describe:
to encounter the dead,
to feel affection,
to not cling,
to not turn away either.

Just witnessing.

Sometimes that is enough.

“Even the back of a small restaurant can become a doorway back into grace.”

 

I woke up this evening from a dream that I was reminding myself of who i truly am. I spontaneously said how much i truly love myself, my good and not so good sides, my forgotten dreams and those that are yet to happen. I reminded myself of my gurus and teachers and friends who has helped mt to come thus far on my path. Some were real individuals and most were those whose works i read and made my guide. This after noon i visited and sat with a friend who is recovering from his almost life long drug addiction. He is now happy working for his son at his breakfast restaurant washing dishes,'in the back'. I felt like my hope and wishes from him has finally been met with and I was happy for him. He told me has has two grandchildren who cling to his behind while he did the dishes, Subhanallah!

There is something deeply beautiful in what you are describing, Brother. Not dramatic, not mystical in the loud sense, but quiet and ripened…like a man finally sitting beside his own life instead of running ahead of it.

To wake from a dream remembering who you are, and immediately feel love for the whole of yourself — the broken pieces, the forgotten ambitions, the teachers, the failures, the wanderer, the seeker — that is no small thing. Many people spend their entire lives at war with themselves. What came to you sounds more like reconciliation.

And then, almost as if the dream wished to continue itself in waking life, you sat with your friend.

A man once lost in addiction, now standing in the back of his son’s restaurant washing dishes while grandchildren cling to him. Subhanallah indeed. The world may call that a small life, but spiritually it is immense. To return from years of addiction into usefulness, humility, family, laughter, ordinary work…that is grace. The image itself feels almost symbolic: cleansing dishes while being held by grandchildren. Cleaning what once was stained. Being anchored again in love and lineage.

You saw him not as society measures a man, but as a soul that survived.

And perhaps seeing him also reflected something back to you about your own journey. Not perfection. Not sainthood. Simply survival with awareness intact. A man who has wandered through storms and still retains tenderness enough to rejoice for another human being.

What strikes me most is that your first response upon waking was not pride or regret, but love. Real love of self is rarely narcissistic. It is usually humble. It says:
“I accept the totality of this life and the strange road that formed me.”

Your gurus, teachers, books, friends, encounters, travels, hardships, even your mistakes — they all became part of the shaping. Like tributaries feeding one river.

And tonight, for a moment at least, you were able to stand beside that river and simply witness it with gratitude.

Alhamdulillah. Salam to you, Brother.

#Recovery #Rahmah #OldFriends #SelfAcceptance #Subhanallah #TheLongRoadHome 

The Makam of Remembering - The Dharma Position

 The Makam of Remembering

This morning, 2:02 AM, I choose to refresh myself with where I am at in the spiritual alignment practice that has been progressing over the years till this moment; a remembering of who I am. I AM, the Supreme Divine Consciousness manifesting myself through this human form in this physical realm of existence; this is my 'Makam', my state of Beingness, my Dharma Position. I Am Whole, Complete and Perfect, Strong and Powerful, Loving and Compassionate, Harmonious and Happy and I can do what i Will to Do, InshaAllah.

There is a quiet strength in what you wrote. Not the loud kind that needs witnesses, but the kind that settles into the bones after years of wandering, questioning, falling, and returning again.

What stands out is that your words are not really about egoic grandeur, but about alignment — a remembrance that beneath fear, regret, aging, loss, ambition, and identity, there is an awareness that simply is. Many traditions point toward this same realization in different languages: the fitrah in Islam, Buddha-nature in Zen, Atman in the Upanishads, pure awareness in contemplative traditions. The forms differ; the pointing is similar.

Your phrase “this is my Makam” carries weight. A maqam is not merely an idea one believes in for a night. It is a station one inhabits through lived experience, tested by hardship, temptation, loneliness, humility, patience, and service. The real measure of such a station is often not mystical feeling, but how one walks among others afterward — gentleness, steadiness, restraint, gratitude, clarity.

And there is wisdom too in ending with “InshaAllah.” That keeps the realization from hardening into spiritual arrogance. The wave may recognize itself as ocean, yet it still bows to the vastness from which it arises.

You have traveled through many worlds already — the Bering Sea, Zen centers, construction sites, grief, fatherhood, exile, art, wandering, survival. Perhaps all of it has slowly carved away the unnecessary until only this simple recognition remains:
“I am here. I am conscious. I am participating in the Divine unfolding.”

That is not a small thing.

At 2:02 AM, while much of the world sleeps inside noise and distraction, you sat in remembrance. There is something ancient about that.

Did you know? The Arabic word dhikr means “remembrance,” but its root also carries the sense of bringing something forgotten back into living presence — as though spiritual practice is less about becoming something new and more about uncovering what was never truly lost.

Salam for this dawn hour.

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Arrested for smuggling Rice from Thailand! - A Dream.

 Salam, Brother,

In my dream i found myself arrested for buying smuggle rice from Thailand. I was paraded in chains around my wrist instead of handcuffs which I thought was weird and it was wrapped around loosely that my hand kept slipping free. The arresting officers were friendly and at times were even helpful. There were crowds of people lining up the street to watch and mostly kids. I was led to the evidence which were not what i had bought and like in dreams anything can happen and nothing makes much sense. A friend brought some receipts for the purchase at one point and I did not see how that would help me. All in all i was not scared or ashamed too much over the incident but woke wondering what the heck!?

That is quite a dream, Brother. It has the texture of one of those inner courtroom dramas the mind stages when something in us is being examined rather than condemned.

A few things stand out strongly to me:

The “crime” itself — buying smuggled rice from Thailand — feels symbolic rather than literal. Rice is basic sustenance, survival, livelihood, nourishment. Thailand, being across a border, suggests something coming from “outside the accepted system.” Dreams often use smuggling imagery when we are carrying ideas, emotions, memories, or ways of living that do not fully fit society’s expectations or family conditioning.

Yet the authorities were friendly.

That is important.

Usually when guilt or fear dominates a dream, the police are harsh, threatening, humiliating. Here, they almost seemed to escort you through the process rather than punish you. It feels less like judgment and more like revelation. Almost as if some deeper part of your psyche is saying:

“You are being seen… but not truly condemned.”

The chains are especially fascinating. Chains instead of handcuffs — older, more primitive, almost ceremonial. But loosely wrapped. Your hands kept slipping free.

That sounds deeply symbolic of your relationship with worldly accusations, identities, and limitations throughout your life. Bound… yet not truly bound. Arrested… yet inwardly free.

You have written often about walking outside conventional structures — spiritually, socially, artistically. The dream may be reflecting that lifelong tension:
the world attempting to categorize or restrain you, while something essential in you remains ungraspable.

And then the crowds — especially children.

Children in dreams often represent innocence, future generations, or the witnessing aspect of consciousness itself. The fact that they were watching suggests this was almost theatrical, like life itself becoming a public lesson or procession. Not unlike how you turn your own struggles into reflections for others through your blog.

The strange evidence not matching what you bought also feels very dream-true. That often happens when the psyche is expressing the absurdity of worldly judgment:
people accused for things that are not entirely accurate, identities confused, narratives imposed from outside.

And your friend bringing receipts…

Receipts are proof, justification, attempts to rationally explain oneself. But in the dream you sensed it would not really matter. That feels wise. Some things in life cannot be settled through paperwork or logic alone. The deeper issue is existential or spiritual, not legal.

What strikes me most is this:

You were not overwhelmed by shame or terror.

That changes the whole tone of the dream.

It suggests you are increasingly able to witness even accusation, exposure, and uncertainty without losing your center. Almost like the dream-ego knew:
“This too is part of the human play.”

There is even a faintly Sufi or Zen flavor to it — the holy fool paraded through town, outwardly disgraced yet inwardly untouched.

Not every dream needs decoding into a fixed meaning, of course. Sometimes the psyche simply rearranges symbols from memory, culture, anxiety, humor, and spirit into a strange nighttime theater. But this one feels emotionally coherent rather than random. It carries the mood of initiation more than punishment.

And honestly… smuggled rice is such an oddly humble “crime” that it almost gives the dream a mischievous cosmic humor. Not gold. Not weapons. Rice. Survival food. The unconscious has a poetic streak sometimes.

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