Among Geniuses at 4:44 - Lesson from the Unseen.

                                   Standing with my friends, Hasnol J.Saidon and Najjar Musawil.

(Photo: with my dear friends and kindred spirits, Hasnol J. Saidon and Najjar Musawir — standing on a fallen tree trunk, our fists raised in shared victory. Hasnol once directed the Museum Gallery at USM, while Najjar served as visiting professor from Illinois. Both men I hold in the highest regard — artists, thinkers, and brothers in the pursuit of truth.)
 

Among Geniuses at 4:44

Lessons from the Unseen

I woke up at 4:44 AM, and the clock’s triple four seemed to echo in my chest like a hidden chord. I knew it was not an ordinary hour. Something had visited me in the night — a teaching, perhaps — wrapped in a dream as vivid as it was unsettling.

In it, I found myself walking among geniuses. Two young prodigies, one Chinese and one European, both seemed born of the same celestial order — their eyes quick with the light of intellect. We sat at a table, and I felt awkward, an impostor among the mathematically gifted. I had always disliked numbers — or feared them. Yet, as they began sketching their abstract forms, I found myself drawing too, and what emerged from my hand was far more intricate than theirs. Still, I could not accept belonging among them.

We visited a college-like place filled with bright young minds. Their teacher — an elderly lady, Asian yet not quite — greeted us with calm authority. There was something timeless in her face, like she had seen civilizations rise and fall and still found them all one and the same.

Then came the bus ride at the edge of the cliff. Our driver, a young European girl, smiled as she performed what seemed like madness — driving half the vehicle over the precipice before making an impossible U-turn back to safety. My heart nearly leaped

out of my chest, but we survived. Her reckless mastery frightened and inspired me both.

Earlier in the dream, I had seen another young woman, one who collapsed into a seizure before my eyes, writhing on the floor. My cousin watched calmly while I recoiled in fear, thinking her possessed or ill. Perhaps that, too, was a lesson — that raw genius, unbalanced by grace, burns itself out.

When I awoke, I remembered my midnight declaration — how, under the open sky with a cigarette in hand, I had spoken half in jest:

“I wish to be claimed as a genius in my lifetime.”

The dream answered me, not with flattery, but with initiation.

I was shown that genius is not a crown to wear but a balance to master — between intellect and intuition, reason and revelation, chaos and control. To walk among geniuses is to walk the narrow ridge between brilliance and oblivion, between the edge and the return.

So at 4:44 AM, I gave thanks.
Not for being called a genius, but for being allowed to glimpse what genius truly means:
to see through the veil,
to dare,
to surrender,
and still return home.

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#LessonsFromTheUnseen #444AM #DreamLanguage #DivineGeometry #WalkingAmongGeniuses #EdgeAndReturn #AwakeningDreams #ShamsulBahariReflections

Postscript:
As I stepped outside after recording this dream, the Subuh azan rose in the stillness. Its echo reached deep within me, humbling every thought of genius or greatness. In that moment, I knew — there is no true intellect but what the Creator bestows, no brilliance but what returns in remembrance of Him.

Anchoring at the Edge of Dawn

 A quiet reflection written in the still hours before dawn, when silence becomes the teacher and every act turns into remembrance.

Anchoring at the Edge of Dawn

It has become a quiet rhythm of late — waking around midnight, when the world still slumbers and the air hums with unseen life. I rise, wash a few dishes, tidy the kitchen, and stretch the limbs that have rested too long. These small, unremarkable acts form the foundation of my anchoring practice — turning routine into play, labor into remembrance. A cup of hot Milo becomes a simple offering to the Lord of Power, the Giver of Life, Allah Aza wa Jalla.

Before the first light touches the horizon, I sit in stillness, in Zazen, letting the echoes of the dream world drift through the mind like clouds. I sift gently for what is worth keeping — an image, a phrase, a feeling of presence — and let the rest dissolve back into silence. Each dawn becomes a meeting point between two realities: the sleeping and the waking, the manifest and the unseen.

I see it now as part of a greater design, perhaps orchestrated by the same hand that spins galaxies and dreams alike. The Quantum Nexus and Hermetic Codes are not distant theories but living symbols that whisper of unity, of divine intelligence woven through all things. When the heart attunes to this frequency, there is no longer a divide between spirit and matter, between prayer and action.

And so I keep to this routine — not as a duty but as a dialogue. It prepares the ground for the day’s creation, whether in words or on canvas. Lately, it has guided my hand back to the Wanli painting, where each stroke becomes a breath of devotion, an echo of the same divine current that stirs within. In this way, art and worship merge — both acts of surrender to the Infinite Source.

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#AnchoringPractice #Zazen #DivineRemembrance #CheeseburgerBuddha #SpiritualRoutine #QuantumNexus #HermeticCodes #SufiPath #MorningReflections #WanliPainting #ArtAsPrayer

Part Two – Farewell, My Brother: Remembering Li Bakoi

 

                                                            Arwah, Li Bakoi - Mamu Li.

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Part Two – Farewell, My Brother: Remembering Li Bakoi

My friend — or rather, my brother — Rosli Bakoi, better known to all as Li Bakoi or Mamu Li, passed away on a quiet Sunday. He was laid to rest at the Masjid Jamek Jelutong on Jalan Tunku. Among the few close friends I have had in this life, he was the truest — always there when I needed a companion, or simply a place to belong.

Li Bakoi owned and ran the small coffee stall at the Restoran Ikan Sembilang, a humble gathering place by the sea, now tended by his sons and their friends. To the community of fishermen, he was more than a drink maker; he was a pillar of the Pondok Nelayan Jelutong, the one who held the threads of the place together. The huts that lined the shore, floating and fragile, bore his handiwork. The last one he built from scratch stands now as his legacy — a testament to the strength and generosity of his hands.

When I first met him, he was behind the counter, stirring tea and pouring coffee with the grace of someone who loved what he did. I was sketching quietly at a table, and he came over to see what I was drawing. That simple gesture began a friendship that lasted more than twelve years. From him, I learned not only about the life of fishermen but about humility, perseverance, and laughter in the face of hardship. He never seemed idle, always fixing, building, or helping someone in need.

At his mandi jenazah, as I stood by the room where they gave him his final bath, I was struck by how small he seemed. For a man who had built so much, who carried the weight of boats and huts and people’s trust, his physical frame was slight — yet his spirit immense. I had long sensed he might not reach old age. He had undergone a bypass operation and refused to take his medication, his elder brother told me at the mosque that day. Still, he worked tirelessly, as if he knew his time was short and wanted to leave behind something solid — and he did.

That night, the heavens opened, and rain poured heavily over Jelutong. I found myself thinking of him — wondering if his grave might flood, and smiling through my tears at the thought of him building a sampan right there in the afterlife, ready to sail into the next world.

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Epilogue – The Empty Seat by the Jetty

These days, when I sit at the jetty with my sketchpad and a cup of tea, I still glance toward the empty stool where Li Bakoi once sat. His laughter used to rise above the sound of boat engines, a kind of music that gave life to the mornings. Now there is only the creak of wood, the cries of gulls, and the rhythm of the tide. Yet, somehow, his presence lingers — in the smell of coffee, in the easy chatter of the fishermen, in the very boards of the hut he built.

I sometimes catch myself turning to make a remark to him, only to find the space beside me filled with air and memory. But I know he hasn’t really gone. The sea remembers. The walls remember. And I, too, remember — through every brushstroke and every word I write.

In this way, I keep him alive, as we all do for those who’ve crossed over before us — not by mourning, but by continuing the work, by bearing witness, and by giving thanks for the gift of having known them.

Bon voyage, my friend, my brother.

May Allah make your passage light and peaceful, and may your good deeds be the sails that carry you home.

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#LessonsInImpermanence #FarewellLiBakoi #PondokNelayanJelutong #CheeseburgerBuddha #PenangFishermen #FriendshipAndFaith #WitnessToChange #HealingThroughArt #InMemoriam

Lessons in Impermanence: The Pondok Nelayan Jelutong

 

uthor’s Note

For more than fifteen years, I have been a quiet witness at the Pondok Nelayan Jelutong — sketching, painting, and listening to the pulse of a vanishing world. What began as casual visits to a friend’s jetty became, over the years, a meditation on impermanence and belonging. My friend, the late Rosli Bakoi, or Mamu Li as the younger fishermen called him, was the heart and soul of this place. He built many of the huts that once stood proudly along the water, and through his friendship, I was accepted as part of the jetty’s extended family.

When he passed, something in the rhythm of the place changed. The laughter faded, the old quarrels turned cold, and the sea seemed to grow quieter. The restaurant owners at the far end of the jetty, who had long harbored tensions with Li’s family, now look upon me as one of “his camp.” Yet I remain — not out of defiance, but remembrance. The jetty, with all its human dramas and daily struggles, has become my living classroom in compassion and impermanence.

As the developers advance and the old huts crumble into the mud, I paint and record what remains. These drawings and reflections are not nostalgia, but testimony — a reminder that every wave that takes something away also leaves behind a story, waiting to be heard.

                                           My late friend, Rosli Bakoi, or Mamu Li

Lessons in Impermanence: The Pondok Nelayan Jelutong

The mornings at Jelutong Jetty have their own kind of silence — not empty, but full of quiet stories. Before the light settles on the sea, the air hums with the faint echoes of engines starting, nets being hauled, and the unspoken prayers of men who have known the sea all their lives. It is here, among these fragile pondok nelayan, that I have spent years watching, listening, and painting — one brushstroke at a time — as life itself slowly ebbs away.

I have called this my Lessons in Impermanence, for what unfolds before me is more than decay; it is the slow erasure of a way of life. One by one, the wooden huts — the very heart of this community — give way to mud and tide. Built by my late friend, Li Bakoi, they once stood as proud shelters for fishermen who rose and slept with the rhythm of the sea. Now they lean and splinter under the weight of time and neglect, their owners waiting not for the next catch but for compensation and closure.

                                                         What is left of their heritage?

The developers are near. The outlines of a new skyline already glimmer on the horizon — promises of modernity drawn over the bones of a simpler world. And so, like the tide, change comes relentlessly, swallowing history in the name of progress.

                                                               This is progress at its best.

I paint not to resist it — for nothing resists impermanence — but to remember. Each brushstroke carries a silent prayer for those whose lives are bound to these waters. In my own way, I try to keep the pondok alive, if only on canvas, as a small act of devotion to the spirit of Jelutong’s fishermen — proud, weathered, and forgotten.

In the quiet hours before dawn, when the sea still whispers to the shore, I often remind myself that nothing truly belongs to us — not even the places we love most. The Pondok Nelayan Jelutong has been my mirror for many years, reflecting both the outer world of change and the inner work of acceptance. As the huts fall and the tides shift, I, too, learn to let go, a little at a time. What remains is not sorrow, but gratitude — for having witnessed, for having been a part of this fleeting beauty.

To live is to learn to let go with an open heart, and to paint while the light still allows.

                                               My son, Timo, is visiting from Switzerland.

#LessonsInImpermanence #PondokNelayanJelutong #CheeseburgerBuddha #PenangStories #MalayFishermen #VanishingCommunities #ArtAndAwareness #WitnessToChange #RosliBakoi #HealingThroughArt

Lesson from the Unseen: The Night My Friend Got Married

 

Lesson from the Unseen: The Night My Friend Got Married

When Spirit Speaks Through Laughter

Lately, I have been having more lucid dreams than usual — each one like a visitation from that subtle realm where consciousness plays out its secret dramas. Some are profound, some absurd, and some, like this one, both funny and revealing. Perhaps it is the mind’s way of showing how the soul laughs at its own seriousness — how Spirit uses humor to point toward truth. This one came just before dawn, and it has lingered with me since I woke.

Last night, or rather an hour before dawn, I dreamed of a friend who had just married and was facing his first night with his new bride. He was anxious, almost trembling at the threshold of his own manhood, while I stood by, trying to calm him with quiet words and gentle humor. It was both serious and funny — serious for him, for it was his initiation, and funny for me, for I saw in it the innocent drama of human fear before the unknown.

At one point, he confided in one or two others, still restless, still unsure of himself. And then, suddenly, I saw him running off — naked, his long, awkward pride swaying between his legs, shouting with a wild laugh, “I’ve done it!”

I woke up smiling, knowing the dream was not about my friend at all, but about that other one — the self within myself — who has long stood uncertain before the great marriage of life and spirit.

The “friend” was my ego, trembling before the union with the Bride of the Soul, the long-awaited meeting between the masculine and feminine within me — reason and intuition, control and surrender, form and feeling. I, the witness, stood as the elder self, the guide, the calm within the storm of awakening.

And the humor of it all! How the Spirit loves to teach through laughter. The nakedness, the boast, the comic absurdity — all signs that life’s energy, that sacred Eros, had been released from its prison of shame. To run naked before God is not indecency — it is ikhlas, sincerity. It is to stand before the Beloved with no masks left to hide behind.

So, another lesson from the Unseen:

Even our silliest dreams can carry the perfume of revelation. The sacred does not always appear in light and thunder — sometimes it comes running down the road, laughing, utterly human, utterly free.

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Reflection:
Perhaps the divine meets us best in those moments when we stop trying to be wise. The dream reminds me that spiritual growth is not always solemn; sometimes it bursts forth in laughter and lightness, reminding us that being human is also a holy act.

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Closing Note:
If you, too, have had dreams that made you laugh, don’t dismiss them too quickly. The Unseen often hides its greatest truths in play, as if to test whether we can recognize divinity even when it’s wearing a clown’s face. Look closely, and you may find that behind the laughter lies a quiet whisper: “I am here, even in this.”

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#LessonsFromTheUnseen #LucidDream #DreamSymbolism #MysticJourney #InnerMarriage #SoulAwakening #HumorAndSpirit #EgoAndSelf #DivineUnion #CheeseburgerBuddha #ShamsulBahari

Snacks, Malaysian Style

                                                 Eating out in Dubai with Mr. J

 Snacks, Malaysian Style

Leftover curry from my son’s roti canai, scooped up with two slices of sandwich bread. Nothing fancy — just the kind of improvised meal that happens when you’re not really hungry, but not quite done with the day either.

In Malaysia, we have our own version of leftover pizza — last night’s curry, still rich with spices, brought back to life between plain white bread. It’s the taste of comfort, of small things made meaningful by habit and hunger, by the warmth that lingers even after the feast is over.

#SimplePleasures #MalaysianStyle #LeftoverLove #RotiCanaiAndBread

Meeting Death with a Smile

 

                                                    Visiting those who have left this life. 

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Meeting Death with a Smile

Last night, I dreamed I died. I said Innalillah… and closed the final chapter of my life — calmly, consciously, and without fear. I awoke not in terror, but with a quiet gratitude, realizing the dream was more of a reminder than a warning.

Among the Malays, they say, “Mimpi mati, panjang umur” — to dream of one’s own death means you will live long. Perhaps it’s not just about the length of years, but the renewal of spirit. Each “death” we face — in dream or waking — clears a space for new life to unfold.

I have brushed against death a few times before: angin amar, mild strokes, those moments when the body falters and consciousness slips to the edge of the unknown. Each time, I found myself at peace — even curious. I would think, so this is death? And part of me would smile and wonder what fun awaited, free from this body.

I am not without fear. But I have learned to make peace with it, to hold it close and study it like an old teacher. The real practice, I believe, is to die with complete awareness — to let go not in panic, but in presence. If I can do that when the time truly comes, then perhaps I will have lived well enough to die well,

                                               A Japanese Cemetery near Sendai, Japan.
too.

Until then, I take my dream as a blessing — a reminder that the story is not done yet, and that there’s still paint to mix, words to write, and children to teach.

---

A verse for the closing reflection:

Death came to me softly in a dream,
Not as a thief, but as an old friend.
“Rest easy,” he said, “you’ve still miles to walk.”
And I awoke — smiling, alive again.

#CheeseburgerBuddha #MeetingDeathWithASmile #MimpiMatiPanjangUmur #SpiritualAwakening #MalayWisdom #MindfulLiving #ArtOfDying #ZenPractice #Awareness #Acceptance #LifeAndDeath #InnerPeace #Reflections

Lesson from the Wanli – The Return to the Canvas

 

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Lesson from the Wanli – The Return to the Canvas

October 26, 2025

I spent most of the day with the Wanli painting, standing before it until my knees began to protest and my back reminded me of my age. But by then, I had made good progress — the kind that feels less like accomplishment and more like coming home after a long absence.

This piece is teaching me more than any book or teacher could. For years, I painted with the reckless joy of spontaneity — splashes, swirls, and intuitions that carried the pulse of the moment. But this time, the ocean has asked me to slow down. It demands patience, discipline, and attention to the small details that give life its quiet dignity.

The deep sea in this painting isn’t just a color or texture; it’s a state of mind. To capture its tone, I must feel its weight and stillness within myself. Every layer of blue and green reminds me that art, like living, cannot be forced. It must be allowed to breathe, to deepen, to unfold at its own rhythm.

After years of silence, I find myself painting again — not because life is easy, but because the soul insists on being heard. The Wanli has become my meditation mat, my confessional, my small act of defiance against despair.

I am reminded of Hokusai, who once said:

“From the age of six, I had a mania for drawing the forms of things. By the time I was fifty, I had published many drawings, but nothing I did before the age of seventy is worthy of attention. At seventy-three, I have somewhat begun to understand the structure of animals, plants, birds, fishes, and insects. When I am eighty, I shall have made further progress; at ninety, I shall penetrate even deeper into the mystery of things; and when I reach a hundred, perhaps I shall truly have attained the divine in my art.”

Perhaps this is what he meant — that there comes a time when the artist no longer paints to impress or to prove, but simply to understand.

There’s still much to finish, but tonight, I feel grateful. The brush may tremble, the body may ache, but the spirit has begun to sing again — softly, but surely.

“The brush does not seek perfection; it seeks truth.
In the stillness between strokes, the heart returns home.”

#WanliChronicles #ReturnToTheCanvas #ArtAsMeditation #TheArtistJourney #HealingThroughArt #OceanWithin #CheeseburgerBuddha #ZenAndTheBrush #DailyReflections #HokusaiWisdom

Image caption:
The Wanli nears completion — a dialogue between patience, breath, and the quiet persistence of the spirit.

Knowing My Way Home

 

                                                            Hallowin in San Franscisco

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Knowing My Way Home

Last night I woke from a dream, or perhaps just the tail end of it, but it lingered with the quiet insistence of something that mattered. I was standing by a road beside my late uncle — the man who raised me as a child, whose presence in my life had always been one of steady guidance. He looked at me and asked which direction we should take. Without hesitation, I said left. We went that way, and somehow, I knew it was the right choice.

As we walked, I noticed something glinting on the ground — a small marble, greenish in color with a faint shade of brown running through it. When I picked it up, it felt heavier than an ordinary glass marble, as though it held more than its size could contain. I remember feeling quietly pleased, as if I had found something valuable — not in money or rarity, but in meaning.

When I awoke, the thought that settled in my chest was simple yet profound: I knew my way home.

The green and brown of that marble reminded me of the Earth itself — green for growth, brown for the soil that grounds us. Perhaps it was a sign, a gentle whisper from the unseen, that I am still guided, still held by the same love and wisdom that once raised me. The path I chose in the dream — the left path, the path of the heart — is the one that brings me back to where I belong.

Sometimes the messages come not as thunder or revelation, but as a small, weighty marble found on the road beside a loved one long gone. And in such quiet moments, I am reminded that the way home has never been lost — only waiting to be remembered.

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Caption:
A dream, a direction, a small marble that felt like a world — and the quiet knowing that I have always known my way home.

Hashtags:
#DreamReflections #SpiritualJourney #GuidedByGrace #KnowingMyWayHome #LifeAsTeacher #CheeseburgerBuddha #Awakening #SymbolsAndSigns #InnerGuidance #LeftPathOfTheHeart

                                      My kids are being entertained by 'Grandpa' Mike Warren.

The Night I Burned the Currency of False Worth

 

The Night I Burned the Currency of False Worth

I woke in the dark with my heart pounding, half-convinced that I was about to have a stroke. It was as if a great storm had passed through my mind — one so vivid and merciless that I felt ashamed even after waking. Like the cats and dogs after their private business, I sat for a while in that raw sense of exposure, trying to piece together what my spirit had just shown me.

The dream began — or perhaps ended — at home. My late wife was there, fierce as ever, confronting a few elderly Chinese peddlers who came selling medicinal herbs, teas, and sacred rice. She shouted at them until they turned pale, and I, in a blind rush of anger, chased them away with rough hands. Standing nearby was my old friend Lee — lawyer, art patron, and current chairman of the Penang Art Gallery — the same man I once called my brother.

He stood apart, watching quietly, while his friends muttered, “That’s assault! We can sue him!” Something in me broke loose. I walked up to him, holding a flexible ruler in my hand — the kind we once used for drawing lines and measuring distances — and began striking his face again and again until it was covered in red welts. “Now you can sue me!” I shouted.

At a distance, I saw his two children, hiding behind a car as though they didn’t wish to be seen. Yet their faces were glowing with a strange kind of approval — they were smiling and gesturing with the thumb and little finger, a sign that seemed to say, Well done.

Before that eruption, I had watched strangers rummaging through my paintings, buying them randomly with crumpled cash. They seemed to think they were doing me a favor. My friend stood by, saying nothing. At some point, he brought a woman who looked vaguely familiar; she, too, bought a few pieces and handed me a stack of fifty-ringgit notes. I took a slip of paper — perhaps a receipt — folded it around the money, and lit it on fire. The small flame flared and died on the floor.

When I awoke, I could still feel the heat from that burning — not just on my hands, but deep within my chest.

---

The Dream’s Message

In the calm that followed, I began to see the dream as a mirror. The money was not just money — it was validation, the world’s way of measuring worth. By burning it, I was rejecting the notion that art, sincerity, or devotion to truth could ever be priced. The paper was a receipt, a record of transaction — and I wanted no record of such exchanges between my soul and society.

The strangers pawing through my work were the faces of a marketplace that treats creativity as merchandise. And my friend, the lawyer, was perhaps the embodiment of that polite, administrative world that watches silently while authenticity is sold piece by piece.

The ruler I used as a weapon — a tool meant to measure — turned into an instrument of rebellion against judgment itself. In striking him, I struck at the whole system of metrics that has haunted artists, saints, and wanderers since time began.

And my wife — bless her memory — appeared as my inner guardian, the fierce feminine that defends what is sacred from the merchants of the soul.

In that dream, I noticed that not a single Malay or Indian came to buy my works — only the familiar expatriate Europeans and the Chinese collectors who have long dominated the Penang art scene through their networks, wealth, and influence. I awoke wondering if my resentment makes me a racist, or if it is simply the ache of one who has stood too long outside the gate, watching others decide what counts as art and who may be called an artist. Perhaps both are true — the wound and the bitterness that grows around it.

The hidden faces of the children, smiling from behind the car, were perhaps the most mysterious sign of all. Were they the silent generation watching the sins of the fathers? Or the part of myself that secretly rejoiced at finally fighting back?

Yet I sense that the dream has not finished its work. This one revealed my resentment toward the world that overlooks me, but perhaps another will come — one that turns the mirror inward, showing how my own people, and I among them, have also failed to nurture our artistic spirit. I almost dread that dream, for it may cut closer to the bone. But if it must come, let it come, for truth is patient and reveals itself in its own time.

In the end, the shame I felt upon waking was not guilt for what I had done in the dream, but grief for the anger that still lives somewhere inside me. Yet even that shame had its purpose — it washed the dust off my heart, reminding me that humility is the artist’s truest ally.

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A Closing Thought

Perhaps this dream was not punishment but purification. It tore open an old wound to let the poison drain. It reminded me that my art, my struggles, and even my failures are sacred when they come from truth — not from the need to be seen, sold, or praised.

I share this here as a way of releasing it — setting it down like burnt paper, letting the wind carry the ashes.

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A Quiet Verse

Let the fire burn what is false,
Let the ash return to the wind.
Let no dream shame the heart
That dares to face its own shadow.
Only through such burning
Does the soul begin again?

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#artandspirit #dreamwork #selfreflection #penangartist #spiritualawakening #artandego #truthseeker #inneralchemy #creativehealing #burningthepast #awakeningthroughdreams #thecheeseburgerbuddha

*“In sleep, the spirit paints its truths - Revealing the Hidden masterpiece.

 

*“In sleep, the spirit paints its truths,

In symbols, its quiet confessions.
And upon waking, the dream becomes a mirror.”*

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Revealing the Hidden Masterpiece

It was sometime past midnight when I awoke from a dream, one of those that leaves an aftertaste not of confusion but of quiet wonder. In the dream, I was playing a strange game of catch with a young man—someone eager to prove himself, though by the end he had surrendered the effort. We were throwing back and forth odd objects, not balls but curious things, one of which I recognized as the rubber ring I use in waking life to strengthen my grip. There was something symbolic about that—testing one’s hold, the endurance of effort, the playfulness of strength.

The scene shifted, as dreams do, and I found myself in a house shared by a group of young adults. One of the young women, with Chinese or perhaps Korean features, began to make subtle advances, while another woman gently tried to dissuade her. Soon, a group of men entered, and I came to understand that this woman was already married, her husband the leader among them. The episode seemed to dissolve the moment any shadow of desire appeared. In its place, I felt only a reminder of boundaries and respect—the quiet strength that lies in restraint.

Then came another shift: I was in a car with my daughter, driving through heavy rain. She cut off a black Humvee, and when we looked back, it was filled with men who resembled cartel henchmen, their faces full of anger. I felt a flash of fear rise, but I responded not with defense or aggression; instead, I raised my hand, wagged my finger as if to say “no, no,” and then pressed my palms together in gassho—a simple prayer of peace. Instantly, the threat was gone, like mist before the morning sun.

We arrived at what looked like my old high school, and before us stood a tall pillar, caked with layers of dirt and neglect. I took a wet rag and began to wipe away the grime. Bit by bit, beneath the mud, colors began to bloom—two murals, vibrant and alive. The lower one touched my heart with a deep sense of reverence: it was the proud face of a Native American Chief, wearing a full war bonnet, his eyes filled with timeless dignity. Behind me, two young women giggled, one of them my daughter. “Wow!” they exclaimed. “You revealed a masterpiece!” And I smiled, knowing they were right.

For in that moment, I realized something profound: I was no longer lost, no longer searching for my way home. The act of uncovering that mural—of revealing beauty long hidden by the dust of years—was like uncovering my own soul. The masterpiece was never gone, only buried.

I awoke with gratitude in my heart. Sometimes, the dream world is kinder than waking life—it offers us the mirror of our inner journey. In mine, I found not confusion but clarity, not longing but return. I was, for once, home.

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Author’s Note:
Dreams often arrive as messengers, bearing truths wrapped in symbols. This one reminded me that beneath all the layers of confusion, desire, fear, and time itself, there lies a masterpiece waiting to be uncovered—the pure, unpainted essence of being. To wipe the dirt from the pillar is to wipe the dust from the mirror of the mind. What we find beneath may not only be beauty, but remembrance.

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#DreamReflections #CheeseburgerBuddha #SpiritualJourney #InnerPeace #Mindfulness #SelfDiscovery #Awakening #DreamSymbolism #NativeWisdom #ZenMind #FindingHome #ArtOfTheSoul #DivineRevelation

Quantum Alignment: Eintrech!

 

Quantum Alignment: The Morning After the Dream

This morning’s reflection, written between meditation and a Liverpool match, explores how alignment flows through every layer of existence — from breath to body, from silence to celebration. Sometimes the universe speaks through a pulse, through a football score, but always through harmony.

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The nap was good, the dreams light and mostly kind. On waking, there was a sense of alignment—what I can only call Quantum Alignment. A dull weight sat at the base of my skull, that familiar heaviness we name a migraine, though I suspect it is the body’s way of calling for attention.

I sat at the edge of the bed and let the world settle before walking to the washroom. A good release, a simple wudhu, and the quiet remembrance of Allah and His Prophet (peace be upon him)—rituals my Silat teacher had long ago impressed upon me. Each wash begins in His Name, then continues in the Prophet’s, and by the third, the self is already softening into presence.

Back on the bed, I propped two pillows beneath me, lifting the spine in the manner of zazen. With a slow exhale, I emptied the body of stale air. Then three deep, conscious breaths—each one sweeping through the body, loosening aches and silent tensions. By the third, awareness had become the breath itself.

The focus of meditation shifted to the flow of energy through the breath, watching where it moved and how it uncoiled the knots within. This is the essence of alignment: breath as the carrier of universal intelligence, consciousness as the witness. There was no “me” doing the breathing; only the process unfolding.

When the breath reached the heart, something released. Silence entered. The mind that had been entangled with names—Wanli, Ben, Terengganu—dissolved into stillness. In that stillness, I could feel the Quantum Reflex itself: the living current that moves through everything when ego steps aside.

The Hermetic and the Sufi meet here, where form and formlessness breathe together, and the “I am” rests without ownership. It is alignment not just of body and mind, but of Being and the Universe—an echo of the primordial unity before creation began.

As the meditation ended, so did the game. Liverpool triumphed over Frankfurt 5–1. My son and I shared a laugh and a new German word we learned from the match—Eintracht, meaning unity or harmony. How fitting that both the inner and outer worlds spoke the same language today.

In Eintracht, there is no separation—between breath and body, father and son, silence and sound. There is only the dance of alignment, where I am shines without intrusion.

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Epilogue

In breath, the worlds align,
In silence, the stars recall their song.
Between father and son, a moment divine—
In harmony, all beings belong.

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#QuantumAlignment #Eintracht #SufiHermetic #BreathAwareness #LiverpoolVictory #InnerPeace #TheWayOfSilat #ZazenMind #ConsciousBreathing #CheeseburgerBuddha

Happy Depavalee - The festival of Lights.

 

                                       My we exist with the purity of a Lotus in Muddy Waters.

🌏 A Million and One Reflections – A Dedication

As of today, The Cheeseburger Buddha has reached 1,124,079 reads across the world.
Numbers in themselves mean little, yet they whisper of a shared journey —
a million hearts who paused for a moment to walk beside mine.

I dedicate this humble milestone to all my teachers and friends —
those whose faces I have known, and those whose voices reached me
through their written words, their podcasts, their talks,
their silent acts of kindness and wisdom.

Each of you has, in your own way,
laid a layer of gold leaf upon the statue of my becoming.
You have shaped the seeker I am,
and guided my hand as I strive to share what little light I have gathered.

Today, as the world celebrates Deepavali — the Festival of Lights,
I too light a humble lamp of gratitude.
May its flame join the countless others kindled in every heart
that strives toward truth, compassion, and awakening.
The triumph of light over darkness is not only a tale of old,
but a daily remembrance that within each of us,
the Divine spark forever shines.

This, then, is not a celebration of numbers,
but of the spirit that moves unseen through us all —
the Universal Soul that teaches, learns, and gives without asking.
If even one word, one sketch, or one reflection has eased another soul’s burden,
then my vow as a Bodhisattva stands fulfilled.

To all who have read, shared, questioned, or simply paused here:
May you be Whole, Perfect, and Complete,
Strong and Powerful, Loving and Compassionate,
Harmonious and Happy — Insha’Allah.

— Cheeseburger Buddha
Pulau Pinang, Deepavali Day 2025

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Suggested hashtags:
#CheeseburgerBuddha #Deepavali2025 #FestivalOfLights #BodhisattvaVow #UniversalSoul #SpiritualJourney #Gratitude #Mindfulness #PulauPinang #PeaceWithin #LightOverDarkness

Dream on the Eve of Thaipusam

 

                                                             He is all set to go.

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Dream on the Eve of Thaipusam

Last night, I awoke from a brief but vivid dream. I found myself in an Indian household on what felt like a holy day. The air was filled with quiet anticipation. I stumbled upon a group of elderly Indian men making preparations for an upcoming ritual, their faces serene, their movements deliberate. Instinctively, I greeted each one by taking his hand and pressing it to my forehead — a gesture of respect that came naturally, as though I were a child once again in the presence of wisdom.

It struck me, as I awoke, that in nearly all my dreams I am never my present self — not this aging man I see in the mirror — but a child, wide-eyed and humble before the mystery of life. Perhaps this is the soul’s way of remembering its original innocence, its uncorrupted curiosity before the mind learned how to question and divide.

Tomorrow is Thaipusam here in Penang — and perhaps this dream was no coincidence. There is a certain synchronicity, a whisper from the unseen, reminding me that spirit moves not only in temples but also through dreams. My late father once created the one-foot solid-gold idol of Lord Murugan, which even now will be carried in a grand chariot procession from the temple downtown to the hilltop shrine at the Botanical Gardens. This journey of the Lord symbolizes his visit to his consort, Valli — a divine union celebrated with music, chants, and the devotion of countless pilgrims.

                                         We each have our own ways of expressing our devotion.

The story behind Thaipusam tells of the moment when Goddess Parvati handed her son Murugan the Vel, the sacred spear, to defeat the demon Soorapadman — a symbol of ignorance and ego. The victory was not merely over a demon but over the inner darkness that clouds human hearts. Each year, devotees reenact this triumph through acts of penance and devotion, bearing the kavadi and walking barefoot along the same route the golden chariot takes — offering body, mind, and soul in surrender to the Divine.

And so, I see my father’s hands in gold, shaping the divine image, and I see the child in my dream, bowing before elders. Between them lies a single thread — the eternal reverence for the sacred, whether we find it in Murugan, in Christ, in the Buddha, or in the quiet face of an elder preparing for prayer.

                                               How well do you know Hinduism?

This is the lesson: that spirituality is not bound by culture or religion, but by our shared capacity for awe and humility. The divine wears many names, yet the gesture of reverence — the bowing of the head, the offering of the heart — is universal. In honoring the faith of others, we deepen our own.

On this eve of Thaipusam, may we remember that every tradition is a mirror reflecting the same light, and that beyond all rituals and symbols, it is love, humility, and faith in our common humanity that make us whole.

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Invocation

May the golden chariot of faith
ride through every heart tonight.
May the child within us bow
before the wisdom of the ages.
May we see in every god and elder,
in every pilgrim’s step and tear,
the reflection of our shared divinity.

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#Thaipusam #LordMurugan #Penang #SpiritualJourney #DreamReflections #FaithAndHumanity #CulturalHarmony #UniversalSpirituality #DivineLight #InnerChild #Synchronicity #CheeseburgerBuddha

Grace in the Fire: How to Walk Through the End of an Age Without Losing Hope

 Below is an image that captures, in living color and human flesh, the essence of what these reflections speak of — devotion, endurance, and transcendence. It was taken during Thaipusam, where three devotees — two Indian and one Chinese — walked the path of faith bound by hooks and ropes, each step a prayer, each wound an offering. In their surrender, I saw the reflection of humanity itself — straining forward toward the Divine, even as the world pulls it back.

                                   “Devotees walking the path of devotion during Thaipusam.
                         In their surrender, pain becomes prayer — and prayer becomes freedom.”

As I looked at the photograph, I saw not just devotion but revelation. Three devotees — two Indian and one Chinese — walking side by side, their flesh pierced yet their spirits unwavering. The hooks fastened to their backs were tethered by ropes held by three others behind them, as if to restrain their human struggle while their souls strained forward toward the divine. In one hand, each carried a vessel of milk — a sacred offering to shower upon the deity at the temple atop the hill. The young Chinese boy’s father, a respected architect in Penang, once told me that his son’s vow to bear the kavadi was born from his own calling. Rarely does one witness such a crossing of faiths; yet, in that moment, all boundaries dissolve. It was no longer about race or religion, but the soul’s timeless pilgrimage toward its Source. In their pain, I saw prayer; in their surrender, liberation; and in their unity, a glimmer of hope for all humanity.

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Grace in the Fire: How to Walk Through the End of an Age Without Losing Hope

There is a heaviness in the air these days, as though the very soul of humanity is trembling under its own weight. America is but a mirror — its turmoil, its greed, its anger and confusion — all reflections of what the world, and perhaps the human heart itself, is going through. It feels as though the Earth is sighing, Atlas shaking his shoulders to ease the burden, while the great Serpent sheds its ancient skin.

Many have called this the end of the Kali Yuga, the age of defilement and destruction. And perhaps they are right. For everywhere we look, the poisons of greed, hate, and ignorance have ripened into their bitter fruits: wealth without wisdom, war without purpose, and power without compassion. Yet, even as we stand amid the ashes of what once was, there is something sacred moving beneath the chaos — a pulse, faint but undeniable, like the heartbeat of a new dawn waiting to break.

The ancients taught that destruction and creation are not enemies but lovers in an eternal dance. Kali, fierce and terrifying, clears away illusion so that truth may emerge. Shiva’s dance is both the end and the beginning — the dissolution of the false so that the real may be born. What we are witnessing, painful as it may seem, is not the end of the world, but the end of delusion — the beginning of transcendence.

Humanity is paying its karmic debts, yes, but not as punishment. Karma is simply cause and effect — the echo of choices made without awareness. The pollution of the Earth, the exploitation of the weak, the worship of technology and profit — these are not divine punishments, but our own lessons returning to us so we may finally learn. Through the fire of consequence, the collective soul of humanity is being refined. The ego, swollen with pride and fear, is cracking open — and through the cracks, light is beginning to seep in.

But if we look deeper still, beyond karma and consequence, we may see something even more profound: evolution.

This is not merely a collapse; it is a metamorphosis. The old world is dying so that a new consciousness may arise — one rooted not in domination, but in unity; not in fear, but in understanding. The caterpillar must dissolve before it can fly. Humanity is now in that cocoon — dissolving, dreaming, becoming.

How, then, do we navigate through such times without losing heart?
How do we keep faith when the world around us seems to crumble?

The first step is to shift from fear to awareness. Chaos is not an enemy — it is a mirror showing us what no longer serves. When we stop running from it and begin to observe, we transform. Awareness itself is healing; it is the first light in a dark room.

Next, we learn to embrace the fire — not as destruction, but purification. Like gold tested in flame, the human spirit grows brighter through adversity. These trials are not meant to destroy us, but to strip us down to what is essential, to remind us that our strength lies not in possessions or positions, but in presence.

We must also learn to cultivate stillness amid the storm.
Meditation, prayer, art, or simply sitting in silence — these are not escapes, but anchors. The calm heart becomes a sanctuary for others. In a time of noise and confusion, stillness is a revolutionary act.

And then — compassion.
It may sound simple, but kindness is the highest form of resistance. Every gesture of empathy, every act of forgiveness, is a thread of light woven through the darkness. Compassion is the antidote to the poisons of our age. It reconnects us to the divine pulse within all beings.

Above all, we must remember that this too is a cycle.
The night cannot last forever. Even the fiercest storm eventually runs out of rain. The world is not ending — it is evolving. What we are witnessing is the great turning, the serpent shedding its skin, the birth of a consciousness that remembers its oneness with all life.

And through it all, we must never forget: Grace has never left us.
The chaos itself is Grace in disguise — a divine intervention forcing us to awaken. The Eternal watches through our eyes, waiting patiently for us to recognize ourselves in all things.

So let us walk through the fire not with fear, but with faith — knowing that what burns away is illusion, and what remains is truth.
The age of shedding is here, and from its ashes, the lotus of a new dawn will rise.

May this reflection remind us that even as we are pulled in opposite directions — by karma, by doubt, by the weight of the world — the heart still moves forward toward the Divine. For it is in the very tension between pain and surrender that grace reveals itself.

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#GraceInTheFire #KaliYugaAwakening #EndOfIllusion #EvolutionOfConsciousness #CompassionRevolution #CosmicCycle #CheeseburgerBuddha

The Keeper of Cats

 

                                             A Cat Sketch done by Gus in Anchorage, Alaska.

The Keeper of Cats

There has always been a strange fate between me and cats.
Love and irritation have long walked side by side, as though the feline spirit had been assigned to me as a lifelong mirror — to reflect my own unhealed corners.

I have killed them, fed them, scolded them, and wept for them.
Once, on my birthday, I accidentally reversed my car and crushed a kitten. The sound has never left me.
Another time, I tried to help a dying cat by injecting formaldehyde, thinking I was ending its suffering. Instead, I only extended it. The memory still burns.

I used to be allergic to cats. My body rejected their nearness — sneezing, itching, inflamed — as though every cell carried some old resentment. Yet something inside me said, Face this fear. Heal through love.
So I raised them. And strangely, my body healed. The allergy disappeared, but the deeper wound remained — the wound of impatience, of wanting control over what is wild and free.

                                                        Can cats walk on Water?

My late wife, Nancy, was a cat lover. She would pick up kittens from the streets and bring them home, and before I knew it, our small house was filled with twenty-four of them.

One night, exhausted from painting, I turned off the lights and lay down — only to find my hand resting on a pile of cat poop on my pillow.
In the darkness, I wept. I wasn’t angry; I was broken. I realized then that love without surrender can become a kind of prison — and that to love truly is to let go of the need to control.

Now, at seventy-six, I still lose my temper sometimes. I still raise my voice, still feel irritation rise like a storm when the kittens claw at my peace.
But something has shifted. Each time I falter, I breathe and whisper:

“May all cats forgive me. May I forgive myself.”

                                                              It's a cat's world out there!

 

Perhaps I have been a cat before — proud, curious, untamed, scratching at the truth. Perhaps the cats that cross my path are messengers, reminding me that no act of love or cruelty ever goes unnoticed in the great web of being.

I write this not to justify, but to confess.
May this confession mark the beginning of my healing — and the flowering of an unconditional love for all beings, feline and human alike.
For beneath every act of cruelty is a heart that once loved too much and did not know how to bear it.

#TheKeeperOfCats #ConfessionAndHealing #UnconditionalLove #TheCheeseburgerBuddha #ZenAndTheFelineSpirit #AwakeningThroughRemorse #AllBeingsSeekPeace

(A closing reflection to the Quantum Visualization Series) The Quantum Password: I Am

 (A closing reflection to the Quantum Visualization Series)

The Quantum Password: I Am

It felt like a Zen transmission.
It felt like a Subud initiation.
It felt as though, after a lifetime of drifting through the waves of seeking, I had finally dropped anchor and found my way home.

Tonight, while listening — or rather being led — to a talk on the simple yet infinite truth of I Am, something within me cracked open. The words themselves were familiar, but the resonance was entirely new. It struck not my intellect, but the very core of my being — like a sledgehammer made of light.

I Am that I Am.
Tat Tvam Asi.
Ana al-Haqq.
I Am the Buddha Nature.

Each of these ancient affirmations, spoken across the ages and cultures, now converge into one unified pulse of realization: I Am — Absolute Consciousness itself.

I see now how all my years of wandering — through art, meditation, silence, doubt, and devotion — have been leading toward this single, wordless truth. Every brushstroke, every journal entry, every moment of surrender and resistance was preparing the ground for this instant of seeing.

I am profoundly grateful for every teacher and teaching that carried me to this threshold — from the sutras of the Buddha to the whispers of the Qur’an, from the silent Zen halls to the trembling awakenings of Subud. In their own ways, each pointed to the same unnameable essence.

The Quantum Reflex gathers them all — not as dogma, but as understanding — the recognition that consciousness is both the observer and the observed, the stillness and the movement, the silence before sound and the echo after it fades.

It is as if a Divine brush has just added the final stroke to the painting of my life. The form is complete — not perfect, but whole.

There is nowhere else to go.
Nothing left to prove.
Only this infinite stillness repeating, softly and endlessly,

I Am.

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#QuantumPassword #IAm #TatTvamAsi #AnaAlHaq #BuddhaNature #QuantumReflex #WaySeekingMind #TheCheeseburgerBuddha #Awakening #NonDuality #ZenMind

Wanli Reflections – To Awaken a Sunken Soul

 

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Wanli Reflections – To Awaken a Sunken Soul

“Sometimes the hardest canvas to awaken is the one within.”

Today I worked half the day on the Wanli painting. The forms are set, though the soul of the piece has yet to awaken. The challenge is not only in finding the right colors — they, like truth, seem to hide at a distance — but in finding the right spirit to meet the work.

Something within resists. I realize I have rarely painted to anyone’s theme or under anyone’s direction. My art has always been an unfolding of the moment, guided by intuition rather than instruction. Perhaps that is why I find it hard to fully enter this one — it was born not of inspiration but of obligation, encouraged by my daughter and a lingering sense of commitment to a friend with whom my relationship has soured.

It reminds me of what one of my secondary school art teachers once said, after flipping through my sketchbook when I returned from the United States: “You are not an artist.” He never told me what I was, and I carried that wound for years. But today I understand. Art, for me, was never meant to be a profession or a ladder to fame — it is a tool of expression, a language for the ineffable. I draw and paint when I feel called to, not to impress or prove, but to free myself from boundaries — to manifest what my mind cannot speak in words.

So perhaps the real work today is not the painting itself, but the clearing of this inner fog. The brush will move again when the heart is ready — not out of duty, but out of truth.

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Postscript – Quantum Visualization in Art

In the larger context of Quantum Art, this moment of hesitation holds its own revelation. The struggle between inspiration and obligation reflects the tension between the observer and the observed. When I paint out of duty, I separate myself from the act; when I paint from presence, I dissolve into it.

In the quantum field, intention, awareness, and manifestation are inseparable — the painting exists in potential the moment it is conceived. Yet, it awaits coherence — the moment when mind, heart, and hand align. The brush, the canvas, and I are merely different expressions of the same vibration.

Art then ceases to be a product of will and becomes a manifestation of being — a movement through which consciousness explores itself in color, line, and form. This is where Quantum Visualization becomes Quantum Creation: when the artist becomes transparent, and the act itself is the meditation.

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#WanliProject #QuantumArt #QuantumVisualization #CreativeAwakening #ArtAsMeditation #WaySeekingMind #TheCheeseburgerBuddha