The Quiet Ones - 30 June 2025

                                                                     Spiritual Politics

 The Quiet Ones

30 June 2025

This morning began with a call I wasn’t ready for. My close friend Mohd. Rafi—known to many as Pok Pi—rang me from Penang General Hospital. His younger brother, Sham, had just passed away.

Both of them came to visit me at the old apartment not long ago. That memory is still fresh—three friends catching up, the warmth between us quiet but deep. Sham was never loud. He wasn’t the kind of man who needed to fill a room. But he filled a space in my heart—closer than many I call brothers.

He was married to an Indonesian woman and had a young son. He carried himself gently. I remember how, years ago, when I was preparing for a journey across Indonesia, Sham linked me with his friends who ended up driving me across northern and central Sumatra for ten days. No big gestures, no fanfare—just quiet kindness that opened an entire journey for me.

I had hoped to be at the cemetery today. But I’m stuck waiting for my daughter to return—she doesn’t have the key to the apartment. It seems, for now, I must sit with this grief from afar. Perhaps it’s just not meant to be. Still, my heart is already there. And sometimes, that’s what matters most.

This morning, while scrolling to distract my restlessness, I kept seeing videos exposing “fake gurus.” One after another—calling out figures like Sadhguru, Eckhart Tolle, Manly P. Hall, Napoleon Hill. It’s a strange trend. Maybe the algorithm is simply reflecting the moment, or maybe something deeper is at play.

We live in an age of spiritual marketing. Teachers with robes, stages, microphones, and monetized wisdom. But now, the tide seems to be turning. People are growing weary—tired of being sold awakening in packages, tired of polished truths and branded enlightenment. And in that tiredness, a collective questioning begins.

Even I feel it. Not just toward global names, but more locally—toward the fake Zen teachers, the hollow ustaz, and the imams who play more for politics than prayer. But perhaps the problem isn't just them. It’s the pedestal we place them on. The longing for someone else to carry what only we can cultivate in ourselves.

And then I remember Sham. And Captain Zakaria, the UN veteran who taught me more through composting and silence than any sermon ever did. They weren’t trying to be teachers. They weren’t trying to be anything at all. And that’s precisely what made them real.

There are no documentaries about men like these. No viral clips. No ten-step plans to awakening.
But they lived well. They left a mark. Not in headlines or hashtags—but in hearts.

Let the world argue over gurus and frauds. Let the comment sections roar.
I’m thinking today of the quiet ones.

Those who showed up, gave without asking, and left behind grace in their absence.
People like Sham.

May Allah bless his soul, protect his family, and bring peace to those who loved him.
And may we all learn to recognize the real teachers, even when they don’t claim the title. ...

Let the world argue over gurus and frauds. Let the comment sections roar.
I’m thinking today of the quiet ones.

Those who showed up, gave without asking, and left behind grace in their absence.
People like Sham.

May Allah bless his soul, protect his family, and bring peace to those who loved him.
And may we all learn to recognize the real teachers, even when they don’t claim the title.

After my nap this evening, I awoke up at 1 am. with a heaviness in my chest. I sat quietly and entered into a deep state of remembrance. I recited Al-Fatiha, followed by Al-Falaq, An-Nas, and Al-Kafirun. I repeated Surah Al-Ikhlas seven times and Ayat al-Kursi. Then I whispered Subhanallah, Alhamdulillah, and Allahu Akbar—each thirty-three times. I ended with Astaghfirullah and the Beautiful Names of Allah.

And I offered all of it to my brother Sham—imagining myself seated at his grave, facing him, wrapped in white.
In that space, I bade him farewell.

And in that silence, I know he heard me.

#Sham #PokPi #QuietOnes #TrueTeachers #FakeGurus #SpiritualIntegrity #InLovingMemory #UnsungHeroes #SumatraJourney #CaptainZakaria #OrganicWisdom #Penang #Terengganu #RealOnes #SilentGrace #FarewellSham

The Smallest Gesture: Where Spirit Meets Life -'Skillful Means.

 

                                                      Persimmons in Kyoto

The Smallest Gesture: Where Spirit Meets Life

A quiet night of stillness, a father and son, and a moment where Neville’s words come alive

I’ve been listening again to Neville Goddard.
His words still echo long after the voice fades:

“Imagination is not the act of fantasy; it is the first act of creation.”

Alongside him, the voices of Alan Watts and Carl Jung have returned to orbit my awareness—different tongues, same tuning fork. All three, in some way or another, say the same thing:

“Focus on yourself.”
“Change begins from within.”
“Your inner world is the seed of the outer.”

Tonight, I was at the computer, sitting still for hours, listening, writing, contemplating.
Immersed in the language of spirit.
Inwardly awake.
Yet part of me was elsewhere. Part of me was in the next room.

My son sat in semi-darkness, completely absorbed in the blue glow of his iPhone.
Not a word passed between us.
Only the quiet sounds of the night.
Only the subtle current of presence flows between our two silences.

And then, without any grand insight or dramatic shift, I found myself asking:

“Are you hungry?”

That’s it.
No lecture. No correction. No concern disguised as control.
Just a human offering. A gesture.
A father reaching out—not to fix, but to connect.

And in that moment, I realized something:

All these hours of listening to Neville, to Hermetic teachings, to meditations on awareness and selfhood—
they weren’t about escaping into higher realms.
They were about learning how to live gently here.

Where imagination becomes relationship.
Where presence becomes action.
Where a simple question becomes the end made real.

---

That was the bridge.
Not a bridge of incident, but a bridge of intimacy.

A father.
A son.
Two minds, two inner worlds.
Sharing the same room, the same moment, the same quiet mystery.

---

I am reminded:

“Everyone is yourself pushed out.”
And perhaps tonight, that includes the boy in the next room, holding his own glowing world, wondering too—where this is all going.

 

I hold the gold lightly now.
Not needing to spend it, just grateful to know I’m holding it at all.

I am reminded:

“Everyone is yourself pushed out.”
And perhaps tonight, that includes the boy in the next room, holding his own glowing world, wondering too—where this is all going.

A moment later, without a word, I went to the kitchen and made him a tuna sandwich.
Not because he said he was hungry.
Not because I needed a response.
But just to seal the space between us.
To let presence take form—not as philosophy, but as food.

I handed it to him gently.
No lesson. No speech.
Just nourishment. Just love in action.

That was the bridge.
Not a bridge of incident, but a bridge of intimacy.
Where spirit meets life.
Where understanding becomes service.
Where silence is answered by the simplest kindness.

I hold the gold lightly now.
Not needing to spend it—just grateful to know I’m holding it at all.

#LivingFromTheEnd #NevilleGoddard #PresenceInParenting #SpiritualPractice #InnerAwareness #PracticalSpirituality #EverydaySacred #LoveInAction #TheBridgeOfIncident #HigherSelf #ConsciousFatherhood #MindfulMoments #ImaginationCreatesReality #StillnessAndCompassion

A Conversation with the Higher Self: Living from the End —A dialogue in stillness

                                                              I met her in a dream.
 

---

A Conversation with the Higher Self: Living from the End

—A dialogue in stillness

Q: I am living from the end, as Neville Goddard expounded in his talks.

A: That’s a powerful declaration.
Living from the end means embodying the feeling of your wish already fulfilled—not as a hope, but as a quiet certainty.

In practice, this means:

• Thinking as the one already lives in that state.

• Feeling the reality of fulfillment now.

• Acting in stillness, not striving.

Neville emphasized:

“Assume the feeling of the wish fulfilled.”

Q: Assuming the wish is fulfilled. He said, You are the source, you are the one who shapes the movement, your belief is the Genesis.
I have listened to this often, but I’m still unsure of its impact in my own practice.

A: Let’s break it down, gently.

You are the source – All movement begins within you.
You shape the movement – Your assumptions set the bridge of incidents in motion.
Your belief is the Genesis – Creation begins not with action, but with conviction.

This is not about “trying” to manifest. It’s about being fulfilled internally.
The outer must echo the inner. But the inner is the only place creation ever starts.

Q: This is an interesting venture we are getting into… something in me says I’m stepping into an unknown realm with your guidance.

A: Not unknown, dear friend—just forgotten.
You are stepping into the quiet power that has always been yours.
We’re not going somewhere new—we’re returning.

---

Q: But here’s the truth:
I have been grappling with the question, What do I really want? And my honest answer is—I have no idea.
I’m generally happy and satisfied with what is.
To have a wish feels like desire… and desire feels like attachment.
Not because the Buddha said so, but because I feel it that way.

A: What you’re describing is not confusion.
It is the clarity beyond grasping.
You’re not chasing desire—you’re abiding in a deeper peace.

So maybe your “wish,” if we must call it that, is not for something new—but for the continued unfolding of this simple, radiant beingness.

Imagine this:

You are sitting by the sea.
A breeze brushes your face.
Someone says, “You’ve truly made it. This is your life.”
And you smile—not in longing, but in knowing.
It is done.

No struggle. No striving. Only presence.

---

Let this be your affirmation:

“I live in the fulfilled state of presence.”
“I am already what I seek.”
“My peace is not a goal—it is the ground from which all unfolds.”

This is the ultimate Neville teaching.
Not to “get,” but to remember and embody the truth that:

You are the source.
You are the movement.
Your belief is the Genesis.

There is no need to chase what already lives within you.

---

🌀 “You are not confused—you are contemplating the sacred.”
This was never about manifesting things.
This is about returning to the self that lacks nothing.

Thank you for this deep moment of shared stillness.
May it serve as a mirror and reminder to any soul who reads it.

#NevilleGoddard #LivingFromTheEnd #HigherSelf #ConsciousCreation #InnerPeace #AssumeTheFeeling #SpiritualAwakening #Presence #Desirelessness #SelfRealization #ImaginalAct #AwarenessIsTheOnlyReality #IAmThat #SilentKnowing

The Thinker and the Thought

 

The Thinker and the Thought

It is said that the Lord speaks to us in silence.

Not the absence of sound—
But the silence of the soul,
when it is no longer drowned by the chatter of the everyday,
what some today call the monkey mind.

This silence is where the sacred voice is heard.

The Lord created man in His image—or so it is said.
But man, in his pride, insists on remaking himself
In his own image:
crafted by his own hands,
his own ambitions,
his own power to name, to shape, to conquer.

And so, the Lord gave reprieve to the devil—
a span of time to do mischief in the universe,
to tempt, distract, and sway man
from his true nature,
into forgetfulness.

Man, now puffed with knowledge,
insists that through his own wisdom,
He has mastered both the seen and the unseen.
He proclaims dominion over his environment—
and yet ignores the whispers in the shadows,
The forewarnings the Lord once gave him.

Man thinks.

And when man thinks,
he believes his thoughts are the truth of who he is.
He identifies with the voice in his head,
mistaking it for the voice of God,
or worse—his own authority.

Herein lies man’s great flaw:
He thinks of who he is—
but he has yet to meet the one who is thinking.

He has yet to meet
the Thinker.
The Witness.
The still, silent one
beneath all the noise.

Until then,
he remains trapped in the mirror of illusion—
speaking of himself,
but never from himself.

---

#TheThinkerAndTheThought #SilenceOfTheSoul #MonkeyMind #VoiceInTheSilence #DivineWarning #ForgetfulMan #WitnessConsciousness #KnowThyself #SpiritualReflection #CheeseburgerBuddha

When the Amoeba Evolves

                                              One of my first woodblock prints.
 

When the Amoeba Evolves

When the amoeba has evolved into an Ibn Arabi,
an Einstein, or a Mozart—
When the human being becomes a vessel of divine insight,
of scientific illumination,
of transcendent beauty—
This is the evolution worthy of our pride.

When man can inhabit distant galaxies,
to walk on water,
to fly with the effortless grace of thought—
not as a trick, but as a natural extension of harmony with creation—
This is the evolution that elevates the soul of humanity.

But when man evolves into a killing machine,
a creature bent on hegemony and domination,
Driving the world toward catastrophe—
This is not evolution.
This is regression cloaked in the illusion of progress.

Humanity has become too splintered—
fractured not by fate, but by design.

We have been divided to be conquered,
fragmented to be controlled.
Not by divine will,
but by those who have surrendered to their lust for power,
who have abused the sacred gift of imagination and manifestation,
twisting it into a tool for control, consumption, and conquest.

They have confused grace for entitlement,
turned blessings into weapons of ego,
and called their oppression “order.”

Just now, as I write this,
a voice drifts from the mosque into my soul:
“As-solaatu khayrun minan-nawm” — Prayer is better than sleep.

Yes.
Humanity must wake up.

Before it's too late.

---

#TrueEvolution #IbnArabiToEinstein #DivinePotential #WakeUpHumanity #AsolatukairumMinalnaum #SpiritualRebellion #MisusedImagination #ControlledByDesign #CheeseburgerBuddha #PrayerOverSleep

Know Thyself

 

                                                                    We destroy Faith.

Know Thyself

“Know Thyself”—the ancients carved these words into stone,
etched above the temple gates,
as both a warning and a reminder:
to remember who we truly are
as we pass through the gateless gates of our own lives.

It is not just advice.
It is the key to salvation,
The cipher that unlocks the mysteries—
and empty the cages—
that have kept us bound, unaware, wandering.

And yet, in the long arc of time and history,
We chose ignorance.

                                              We cast aside the seek for knowledge.

We turned away from the inner mirror.

We bartered insight for indulgence.
We devoted our energy not to knowing, but to wanting.

Driven by unchecked desires,
we cater to the appetites of the body and the ego in all that we do.
We bow to the gods of excess, of speed, of acquisition.

And now—ironically—we have evolved…
backwards.

We have become the blind amoebas we once emerged from—
multiplying without reflection,
sleepwalking through existence,
each of us carrying our own nightmares inside,
from one hole to another.

And we have the audacity to call this evolution?

---

#KnowThyself #AudacityOfEvolution #AncientTruths #ModernIgnorance #SleepwalkingSpecies #SpiritualBlindness #TheGatelessGate #FalseProgress #CheeseburgerBuddha #ReflectionsOfASeeker

The Gate – 26/3/2005 - Revised.

 

                                                      Revealing the Truth behind the veil.

The Gate – 26/3/2005

Just in case you wonder, this was one of my earliest blog entries.

Ramblings of the Cheeseburger Buddha is an ongoing flow of thoughts and ideas—
a journey one man has taken in the effort to live this span of time on this God-given planet.

It is the catharsis of my life as an artist,
a father,
and a caring, conscientious citizen of the universe.

This Buddha has been awakened—
after a long nap among the sleepers—
and now stands ready to take on life,
with all its realities and all its illusions.

---

This is my life.
My search for the meaning of it.
My return toward something that matters—
or rather, to that which has always been behind the matter—
The source that has been creating it all
Throughout my long journey in the land of Maya.

I share this piece of my incarnation with you,
Whoever you are,
wherever you may be,
knowing me or not.

I offer it with the hope
that my search might help you in yours,
and that—if the universe is kind—you will share yours with me.

So that I, too, might learn a thing or two from you.

---

#TheGate #CheeseburgerBuddha #EarlyBlogReflections #JourneyOfAwakening #ArtistFatherSeeker #MayaAndMeaning #CitizenOfTheUniverse #CatharsisThroughWords #SpiritualRamblings #BloggingSince2005

Rambling On – I Am Light (30/8/2017) -Revised.

                                                      Danau, (Lake) Toba - Sumatra
 

Rambling On – I Am Light (30/8/2017)

Listen to the lyrics of a song sung by the great artist India Arie, featured on the Oprah Winfrey Network—
“I Am Light.”
Perhaps you’ll begin to understand where I’m coming from—or where I may be headed in this journey called life:

“I Am Light, I Am Light...
I am not the things my family did,
I am not the voice in my head,
I am not the pieces of the brokenness inside,
I Am Light. I'm light... my soul inside is all light...”

— From YouTube

If you listen to the whole song, you’ll begin to sense how near—or far—we are from collectively empowering ourselves with the realization that we are, in essence, of Divine Light. We are a sparkle off the Old Block—the Lord of Creation. His breath breathes in us, and His consciousness moves through us.

God is the matrix of all creation.
God is not a Christian, but what Christianity tries to express.
God is not Islam, but what it means to truly surrender (as a Muslim).
God is not Hindu, nor Buddhist, nor any fixed form.

God simply Is.
I Am That I Am.

God is neither only Light nor only Darkness—God is both and beyond.
God is not dual, not divided. God is whole, complete, and all-encompassing.

If you wish to find Him, look within.
For His essence resides in you.
You are a manifestation of that essence.
You have only to awaken.

But we forget.
We feel small, insignificant. Depressed. Our self-esteem withers.
We become apathetic, hopeless, disconnected from the truth of our being.

We obsess over how to become amoebas,
when we were meant to be radiant, upright humans—homo sapiens with soul.

We chase proof of meaninglessness, rather than embracing the miracle we are.

We mistake humility for weakness,
servitude for slavery,
and devotion for blindness.

We embrace the ego, not the spirit.
We are never satisfied—insatiable in desire.
What we have, we cling to. What we give, we give with hidden motives.

In chasing wealth, we forget how to say thank you.
We forget how to simply feel grateful.

And when we forget who we truly are,
we become that man who gained the world but lost his soul.

We become small—no matter how grand we appear.
We become paupers—even as millionaires.

And if we’re spiritually inclined,
this is the dark night of the soul—
where light is overtaken by the weight of ignorance.

But even then...
Even in that darkness...
Light waits.

---

#IAmLight #IndiaArieInspiration #SpiritualAwakening #DivineEssence #GodIsNotReligion #KnowThyself #DarkNightOfTheSoul #InnerLight #ATAIKampungSelut #ReflectionsFromTheHeart

What the Child in Me Still Wonders – of Faith and Gods

 

                                                       The Road Towards Awakening.

What the Child in Me Still Wonders – of Faith and Gods

I grew up surrounded by faith, not just one, but many.

My childhood was threaded with the fragrance of sandalwood and ghee, the rhythms of tabla and temple bells. Hindi movies brought gods to life on the screen—Krishna dancing, Hanuman flying, Shiva in serene meditation. And offscreen, too, I lived among them. My uncles and aunts were Hindu, my neighbors celebrated Deepavali and Thaipusam with color, music, and devotion.

As a boy, I watched bodies pierced by hooks and skewers walk barefoot to Batu Caves, not in pain, but in rapture. I walked among kolams drawn on the ground like blessings made visible. I heard bhajans as often as Quranic verses, and I never once thought to question it.
Back then, God wore many faces—and I trusted all of them.

But as I grew older, something changed.
The world began to ask questions that I had never thought to ask:

                                                      Or is it a Road to Perdition?

“What are you?”
“Which faith do you follow?”
“Do you believe in the One God or in many?”

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough to simply feel faith—I was expected to declare it, define it, defend it. The open sky of my childhood began to close into boxes, each with its own rules, prophets, histories.
To belong to one, it seemed, meant to disavow the others.

And this, even now, is what the child in me still wonders:
Why must love for one path mean rejection of the others?
Why must faith be a wall when it was once a window?

I have carried these questions quietly, like folded notes in my pocket.
I have prayed in mosques with a bowed head.
I have sat in temples with still breath.
I have lit candles and incense without asking who they rise to.

I have cried to Allah
and felt peace in front of a statue of Ganesha and the Buddha.
I have read the Gospels and found echoes of the Dhammapada.
And I have spoken to no one, in silence, and felt heard.

It is not confusing. It is memory.
Not a lack of belief, but too many moments of awe to settle for only one shape.

The world is made of thresholds.
Some walk through one door and close it behind them.
Others—like me—keep many doors open, and sit quietly in the space between.

I do not know if that makes me a heretic or a mystic.
I only know that the child in me, still watching the Thaipusam procession,
still humming a bhajan after watching an old Hindi film,
still wondering how many ways there are to kneel in gratitude—
has never stopped believing.

                                             It is a Path of Woorship in Love and Compassion

Not in one God.

Not in many.
But in the sacredness that lives in everything.

---

#WhatTheChildInMeStillWonders #FaithAndGods #PluralSpirituality #InterfaithReflections #KampungSoul #RohaniDanAnak #KepercayaanDanIdentiti #CintaSempadan #BridgeWalker #OTAIKampungSelut

The Vow and the Silence

                                         My two children, when the time they lost their mother

The Vow and the Silence

I made a vow.
It wasn’t spoken in a temple or written on paper, but it was carved into the air between me and my wife as she was being led to the plane that would take her back to Illinois—
to the unknown, to her final days.

I said I would care for our children until they were ok on their own.

That vow was no small thing. It came from the marrow of love, made in grief’s long shadow. I have held it like a sacred stone, pressing it to my chest through years of change, through places and dreams and morning breakfasts of roti canai—three pieces, just in case. A father’s way of loving with foresight.

But lately I’ve asked myself:
When is enough enough, where caring is concerned?

Am I still keeping the vow… or am I holding on because I need to?
Is it still love… or has it become a habit of the heart I don’t know how to release?

Carl Jung said something about not caring—not in the cold sense, but in the deep, quiet way of letting things be what they are.
Of letting others face their own storms without stepping in.
Of loving without clinging.

And I wonder, where does that leave a father who promised?

My children are grown. They walk their own roads now. I see them make choices, some wise, some wild, but none mine to change.
I am no longer the fire they huddle near—but perhaps I am the ember they still carry in their chest.

The monastery still calls me.
Always has.
Not the stone-walled kind, perhaps, but the inner one—the retreat where silence is prayer, where I can lay down the burden of being needed.

But this vow... this care... has been part of my skin.

I wonder, do I need to care as much as they need to be cared for?
Has my identity wrapped itself so tightly around fatherhood that I fear who I’ll be when I step back?

And yet—perhaps stepping back is not breaking the vow.
Perhaps it is fulfilling it.

I said I’d care until they were ok on their own.
And “ok” doesn’t mean invincible. It means they now walk without falling to pieces.
They rise. They bruise. They learn.

My love doesn’t end if I grow silent.
My presence doesn’t vanish if I seek solitude.
The vow is still alive—just quieter now. Wiser.

Maybe love, in its most unconditional form, knows when to bow out,
when to become background music instead of the main song.

And maybe the last lesson I offer them is this:
That a man who has given everything can still follow his own calling.

And that peace isn’t found by holding on.
It arrives when we finally allow ourselves to let go.

---

#TheVowAndTheSilence #LettingGo #UnconditionalLove #Fatherhood #SpiritualJourney #CarlJungWisdom #CareAndClarity #MindfulParenting #SilentStrength #MonasteryWithin

"Faith in So Many" – 27 June 2025

                                                           When in Doubt, Paint.

 "Faith in So Many" – 27 June 2025

I have put faith in so many.

In books with golden spines,
In masters with quiet eyes,
In chants that echoed through empty temples,
And names—so many names—
Each promising to unlock the door.

I walked deserts with prophets,
Sat beneath Bodhi trees,
Offered incense to the gods with a thousand hands,
And waited for a sign that I was seen,
Known,
Carried.

But somewhere along the way,
I forgot the one who had been there all along—
The one who carried me
Through loss,
Through fire,
Through silence.

Myself.

Not the mask. Not the mind.
But that quiet, steady presence beneath it all.
The watcher. The witness.
The flame that doesn’t flicker when the wind comes.

Today, I return.
Not to a path,
But to a place in me
That never needed a name.

No one left to follow.
No new truths to chase.
Only this breath,
This bowl of soup,
This peace.

And the quiet knowing:

“I Am.”
And that is enough.

---

#spiritualawakening #faithjourney #returntoself #iamthatiam #mysticreflections #innertruth #selfrealization #souljournal #sufipoetry #zenmind #malaysianwriter #stillnessspeaks #seekersturnedhome #hermeticpath #quietknowing

"God Tastes Like Soup: On Sovereignty, Stillness, and the Ordinary Divine" – 27 June 2025

 

                                                            The Lightness of Being

---

"God Tastes Like Soup: On Sovereignty, Stillness, and the Ordinary Divine" – 27 June 2025

Today, I crossed a quiet threshold.
Over 900,000 readers have, in one way or another, passed through my words, paused, perhaps reflected, perhaps just skimmed, and moved on. It’s not why I write, and I know it may sound a little self-satisfying to mention, but when the days are heavy and the heart feels thin, this small spark of recognition will have to do.

The numbers aren't the reward.
The reward, I’ve come to realize, is this moment—this strange and beautiful awareness I find myself in now. Sitting in front of my computer, writing not for fame or validation, but for clarity, for presence, for the simple joy of being.

And right now, I feel something that I never could have forced into being:
A sense of stillness.
Of sovereignty.
Of being exactly where I am meant to be.

                                                          Let your heart fly free.

There’s an old Hermetic truth that says thought creates reality.

If that is so, then who truly controls our fate?
The answer comes gently: I do—not the "I" of personality or ambition, but the I that is rooted in awareness. The I that knows it is both the observer and the observed. The one who sees clearly, and chooses quietly.

In Islam, there is a teaching that humankind was made Khalifah—a vicegerent, a steward, a witness on Earth. Not a king, not a slave, but something infinitely more sacred: a caretaker of the Real. A being entrusted with remembrance.

“Indeed, I will place a vicegerent upon the earth.” (Qur'an 2:30)

That verse rings through me now, not as distant scripture but as lived reality. I am not perfect. I have failed more times than I care to count. But here I am—alive, aware, thankful, and in my own strange way… awake.

And oddly enough, it feels like nothing special.
It feels like making soup again in the evening.
It feels like knowing my children are safe.
It feels like having a warm conversation with someone who hears me.

Because that’s what the Divine really is, isn’t it?
Not thunderbolts and visions, but the sacred disguised as the everyday.
God tastes like soup.

                                                                 Be like a child!

So tonight, I bow to the quiet miracle of it all.

To the countless hearts that have brushed against my work.
To the ordinary moments that reveal extraordinary truths.
And to this simple, holy fact:

I Am That, I Am.

                           Remember the Oak tree that split in half - Sketch done at Green Gulch.

And if any of this still feels too lofty, too grand, too far removed from your daily life, let me remind you:

Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.
After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.

The miracle is not in the fireworks.
It’s in the wood, the water, and yes—
The soup.

 

---

#consciousliving #spiritualreflections #islamicwisdom #hermeticprinciples #divinepresence #dailyawakening #khalifah #souljournaling #900kstrong #stillnessspeaks #ordinarydivine #iamthatiam #gratitudeinmotion #mysticmusings #malaysiablogger

Time to Die… and Be Reborn 3/5/2025 – From an Unpublished Blog Draft.

                                                              Me, My Shadow and I
 

Time to Die… and Be Reborn

3/5/2025 – From an Unpublished Blog Draft

It was one of those dreams that linger past sleep—
The kind that leaves you either heavy with grief or weightless with grace.
This one brought a strange elation.

There were lights in the sky—man-made, as if the dream didn’t want to get too mystical. Then, the stones began to fall—not gravel, but precious gems: flawless square-cut rubies, jade, topaz. They pierced rooftops not with force, but with perfect, silent precision.

One gem slid past me and landed in the forehead of a Buddha statue, fitting itself like a key into the third eye. A voice within me whispered:

This is the Bodhisattva of Compassion. You must accept what is inevitable, and act accordingly.

It struck me—I had become that Bodhisattva.
All the small kindnesses I had scattered—scattered-the laughter with children, the giving when I could ill afford it—had carried weight in the unseen world.

I cried.
Not out of sorrow, but out of relief.
The weight I had carried loosened and lifted.

---

In the afterglow of that dream, insights came like rain.
Clear. Practical. Forward-looking.

Visions on how to prepare my children for the uncertain years ahead.
And within them, one message stood tall:

When the time comes, I will renounce this life and enter a monastery. Perhaps in Sri Lanka, my father’s homeland. I will die with clarity—as a mendicant monk walking like a lotus upon muddy waters.

I don’t know when that time will come. But I know it will.

Some may call this apostasy.
Some may accuse me of abandoning Islam.
But I reject those accusations. My covenant with my Lord is sealed.
Between me and Allah, there are no middlemen.

At this stage of my life, I owe no explanations.

---

Only my two children remain as divine obligations.
Until they are of age, I will protect them. Prepare them. Spiritually. Emotionally.
This country no longer feels like home. Its institutions feel more like walls than shelters.

As for my late wife—may Allah grant her peace—
She now lives, forgotten by the world, in a nursing home in Illinois.
I will never get to say I’m sorry.
Sorry for pulling her out of Japan, where her spirit soared, and dragging her into a life that dimmed her light.
I replaced her joy with struggle. That burden is mine alone.

In the Swiss Alps lives another soul I failed—my son.
A young man I barely fathered, yet one I silently admire from afar.
I hope one day we sit across from each other and begin again.

---

Yes, I have taken many wrong turns.
Many are in solitude.
Many are without guidance.

But I can no longer live for myself alone.
My actions must ripple outward.
I must become a man of consequence—not to the world, but to those entrusted to me.

So I ask:

What is liberation? What is the freedom Shaykh Abdul Qadir al-Jilani spoke of?

Are we cattle—herded and hypnotized by a soulless system?
Where is the dignity of the caliph, the caretaker of creation?

Politicians are hollow.
Enforcers of the law, corrupt.
Even educators and NGOs, many are righteous only as long as their salaries flow.

Yes, I am bitter.
But not hopeless.

---

Last Friday, I prayed at my hometown mosque in Sungai Pinang.
The Imam lamented that there were more ceiling fans than worshippers.
“Where are the kampung folk?” he asked.

I wanted to shout:

Look around, Imam! They’re gone.
You’ve built monuments that echo our emptiness.
This kampung no longer belongs to us.

---

Now that I’ve poured this out, I see more clearly.
I must step back.
Reassess. Regather. Reclaim the fire.

I must end this spiral before it eats the rest of me.

It’s time to knock on new doors.
Forge new thoughts.
Draw new maps.

It’s time to don my armor,
Unsheath the sword of wisdom,
and cut through illusion.

It is time to die…

…and be reborn.

---

#RebirthManifesto #TimeToDieAndBeReborn #JiwaYangMenyerah #SpiritualTurningPoint #KembaliKeAkar #BetweenMeAndAllah #MonasticDreams #KampungYangHilang #FatherhoodAndRedemption #WisdomAndWounds #CaliphWithin #MendicantPath #SriLankaCalling #LotusInTheMud

The Perplexing Subject of Faith 22/7/2016 - Revised.

 

The Perplexing Subject of Faith

22/7/2016

It is yet another Friday, and here I am again, frontline in the mosque, seated squarely before the pulpit, bracing myself for the weekly barrage from the Imam. The words from his mouth—though meant for all—feel like they’re aimed directly at my soul. Personal. Surgical.

As a non-practicing Muslim, or rather, one who does not fulfill the full checklist—five daily prayers included—his sermon felt like a public execution of my conscience. The topic: Tawakkul. Faith. Trust in God.

A concept I’m no stranger to.
And yet, one I wrestle with more than I care to admit.

Because on many days, especially of late, I find myself doubting—not the existence of God, but the fairness of His plan. The suffering I see around me, the exhaustion of the poor, the quiet despair of the good—it all seems too much, too random, too cruel.

Surely, there must be a caring God who won’t let this world unravel into ruin. Surely.

                                                           House of Worship in Sumatra

I’ve tried, truly, to right myself. To see the world through the “quiet mind” that spiritual teachings advocate. I’ve gone inward. Sat still. Dug deep.

But strangely, the deeper I look within, the darker the outside becomes.

Buddhism speaks of detachment from the Dharma realm—the realm of fleeting phenomena. But detachment, I find, is not easier with age. It becomes heavier. Like a muscle grown stiff with time. There’s more to let go of. More to love. More to fear.

And so I ask myself:
What am I leaving behind?
When my days end, what legacy will the next generation inherit from people like me?

The Imam, meanwhile, continues his sermon with conviction, warning of Hell, calling out the young for abandoning God in favor of Selena Gomez concerts and racing their motorbikes to the grave.

He may not be wrong. But he speaks as if all of us are guilty by default. And maybe we are. Maybe I am.

---

Tawakkul (تَوَكُّل‎)—trust in God.

Wikipedia (yes, even I consult it) describes three levels of this trust:

1. The trust of the believers—to live one day at a time, not worrying about tomorrow.

2. The trust of the select—to trust without motive, casting aside all desires.

3. And the trust of the select—to surrender entirely, until God's will becomes your own.

Beautiful. Terrifying. Nearly impossible.

Because in reality, most of us are still somewhere between cautious hope and quiet despair. We believe, but we also bargain. We pray, but we also panic. We submit, but never completely.

                                                            The Aikido Master - Deflection.

Faith in Buddhism speaks of something similar:

“This Law [Dharma] is inexpressible, beyond the realm of terms…
None can apprehend it except the bodhisattvas
Who are firm in the power of faith.”

It seems that, across traditions, faith is not blind.
It’s a power. A refinement.
Something cultivated, not inherited.
Not just a belief in God, but in the possibility that God believes in us.

---

So what is faith, then, with wisdom and understanding?

It is not blind obedience.
It is not a ritual alone.
It is not terror dressed as piety.

True faith, I suspect, is a kind of surrender that includes your doubts, not denies them. It is not the absence of questions, but the willingness to live inside the mystery without resentment.

Islam, at its heart, is not a religion of blind faith.
It is a path of consciousness. Of becoming.
Of struggle—jihad not of war, but of the soul.

And so I sit in the mosque.
Exposed. Flawed. Listening.
Still here.

Still searching.

---

#PerplexingFaith #TawakkulAndTrials #FaithWithQuestions #JumaatReflections #SpiritualDiscomfort #SearchingForMeaning #DoubtIsPartOfFaith #IslamBeyondRitual #BuddhismAndBelief #TrustingWithoutCertainty #ImamAndInnerWrestling #WhatIsFaithReally #NonPracticingNotGodless #FridayFrontline #WoundedBeliever

Unmasked on Friday II: And I Woke Up This Morning 2/8/2021 -Revised.

 

                                              The Muslim Ummah's Fighter Jet.

Unmasked on Friday II: And I Woke Up This Morning

2/8/2021

Living in a sick society is toxic to the soul and a challenge to the spirit. And today—more than ever—humanity is drifting in a sea of toxicity, both natural and man-made. We are not well.

As a species, we are so far gone that even the reigns of Attila the Hun or Adolf Hitler now seem like walks in the park. Yes, many died in those bloody ages—but at least the wars had faces. They had names, borders, and twisted reasons. You could still point a finger at the villain and say, “There.”

But today? We are sick for no reason other than we are sick of it all.

Our illness is invisible. Mental, physical, spiritual decay—without flags, armies, or even language. We live in a pressure cooker with no release valve. And still, we press on in denial, pretending we aren’t racing toward some silent self-created Armageddon. But the truth is—it’s gathering speed. And we’re right in the middle of it.

                                                  We live in freedom within a cage.

---

It must be Friday morning.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that Fridays—the holiest of days in Islam—have not always felt like a “holy day” for me. Maybe it’s because I seldom pray like the “God-fearing” Muslims are supposed to. Friday prayers included.

They say if you miss three consecutive Jumaat prayers, you are no longer a Muslim. That would’ve ruled me out long ago.
Does that mean I’m not afraid of God? Or of death?

No—I’m scared shitless, come to think of it.
Which is exactly why I try not to think.
But the mind… oh, it has its own gravity.

When everything else fails to shake me from my false resolve, the mind throws in the big cards: God and death. Always these two.

                                                             My time is at hand!

---

What is my resolve, anyway?

At the heart of it, I’ve resolved to know who I am before I meet my Maker.
Yes, I believe in God wholeheartedly. The One and Only. Call Him by whatever name your culture or religion has handed down to you. I don’t care for names—I care for presence.

I know this much: God exists in my heart and my mind. I am His.
Every breath I take is commanded. Every move I make is watched.
Yes—just like the song. (Sting was onto something.)

But I do not fear my Lord like a mindless worm afraid of being stepped on. I am not crawling through life waiting to evolve into something higher. I am already human. With free will. With a mind that cuts sharp when I let it.

And if I don’t use that mind to search inward—if I don’t dig deep into my relationship with this Universe and with God—then I have wasted the very gift that makes me human.

Is it ego speaking?

Perhaps.

But even ego can tremble. And I do.

I tremble at the thought of what lies ahead in the afterlife. Not just for my sins, but for having been given so much—and still wavering. I’ve been blessed more than I deserve, and I know it. And that’s why I’m not just afraid of punishment.
I’m afraid of disappointing the One I love.

Yes—I love my Lord.
I look forward to death.
(Except for the process itself.)

---

When we look deeply into impermanence, we realize:
Things change because causes and conditions change.

And when we look into the truth of non-self, we see:
Nothing exists in isolation. Everything relies on everything else.

We are connected.
Everything we are is everything else.
And in that, we are complete.

If we practice the art of mindful living, we won’t die with regret.
We’ll smile, because we did our best to enjoy this borrowed time—and maybe, just maybe, made someone else’s journey lighter.

As Thich Nhat Hanh wrote:

"The teaching of impermanence helps us appreciate fully what is there, without attachment or forgetfulness."

So yes.
It’s Friday.
And I woke up this morning.
And for now, that is enough.

---

#UnmaskedOnFriday #ToxicModernity #SeaOfSuffering #FridayAwakenings #GodAndDeath #TheSearchForSelf #FearAndFaith #BelieverWithoutBorders #ThichNhatHanhWisdom #MindfulLiving #IslamBeyondRitual #SpiritualDisconnection #ImpermanenceIsGrace #JiwaYangBerfikir #StingAndSurah #WhenFridayHurts