Letting Go of the Non-Sense and Seeking What Makes Cents 22 May 2005

 Letting Go of the Non-Sense and Seeking What Makes Cents

22 May 2005

The house at To’ Jembal is no longer mine—not in body, nor in spirit. I have let it go, and with it, the remnants of a family life now scattered across continents. I sold what I could, gave away what others needed, and burned the rest. All that remains are a few things of sentimental value, tucked away for memory’s sake—small anchors in a sea of letting go.

I was astonished by how many photographs I had accumulated over the years. Boxes of images, slices of time, echoes of moments long past. I felt a pang of shame—how much had I spent chasing this hobby? Hundreds of CDs, each one once meaningful, now reduced to clutter. I gave most away, some I simply discarded. Neighbors came and ransacked the leftovers: clothes, curtains, potted plants, even the compost piles weren’t spared. I didn’t stop them. I saw it as an act of charity, however forced, and that gave me some measure of peace.

The act of giving, I’ve heard, holds more authentic power than the act of receiving. It’s in the Qur’an, or perhaps a Hadith. And in this life, I often feel as though I am made to be charitable—willingly or not. But I've also found that, when in need, there’s always someone—somewhere—who shares what they have with me. It’s a strange grace, quiet and unwavering.

Now I am in the final stages of preparation for the next journey. Raof and I have decided to drive to Kuala Lumpur together, where we’ll speak with his sister about a joint venture. I would serve as the artist and buyer while she becomes the dealer and manager of my work as I travel through Indonesia. Raof will be the runner, the bridge between us, overseeing the operation and making sure I’m safe—spiritually and materially. He’s also managing my literary archive: past writings, present reflections, future musings. His task is to shape them into something coherent and presentable—something that might reach a wider audience.

With help from friends in the U.S. and Japan via the internet, I hope this humble project will grow of its own accord. This isn’t just a personal venture—it’s also a study of globalization and its impact on the family unit. It’s a testament to resilience, self-empowerment, and the emotional intelligence needed to navigate life on a global stage. Every trial, every unexpected twist, every hardship has become—as Baba Ram Dass would say—grist for the mill. The screws are tightening, the wheel is turning. I’m being primed for what comes next.

Win or lose, right or wrong, success or folly—it’s all in the hands of the Almighty. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un. What comes from Him returns to Him. The show’s not over—not until the Fat Lady sings. Or, as Pink Floyd would say: The Show Must Go On.

Today also happens to be the Buddha’s birthday. And so, I must say a few words in honor of a great teacher—if not a prophet—who shaped the early years of my life. I was raised a Buddhist until the age of twelve, before returning to my immediate family in Terengganu and embracing Islam. For a long time, I felt like less of a Muslim because of my Buddhist past. But no more.

Today, I see it as part of God’s greater plan: to walk this lesser-traveled road, to draw wisdom from more than one stream. The teachings of the Buddha, far from being a hindrance, have enhanced my understanding of Islam. They’ve helped me glimpse my original nature—fitrah—and brought depth and intimacy to my worship of God. What I once viewed as a contradiction, I now embrace as a divine complement.

This morning, when Raof’s business partner and managing director entered the office, I greeted him with a cheerful, “Happy Birthday to you!” He looked puzzled, glanced at the calendar, and said, “Today is Buddha’s birthday, not mine.”

“But it is,” I replied. “It’s my birthday. And his too,” I said, gesturing toward Raof. “And yours as well.”

That was too much for him. The devout Muslim in him balked, brushing the idea aside as either too deep or too dangerous. I let it go, the moment slipping past like a wisp of incense.

Still, I wish I could have shared with him what I’ve come to understand: that being a Buddha means awakening to one’s original nature—not denying God, but recognizing Him within all things. That religious tolerance must go beyond mere respect; it requires real effort to understand what others believe, especially in a country like Malaysia, where many paths walk side by side.

To truly live in harmony, we must seek not only the differences but the shared truths. This is what the Sandōkai teaches—“The Harmony of Difference and Equality.” It is the merging of opposites, the dance between unity and diversity.

And that, perhaps, is where my journey truly begins.