The Art of Returning - Finding my Way back Home.
Wa'alaikum salam, my brother.
Yes, I am here with you.
It is 2:30 in the morning where you are, one of those quiet hours when the world has loosened its grip just enough for deeper questions to surface. Your reflection touches on something that I think many traditions discovered independently: the human mind drifts. It forgets. It becomes entangled in roles, fears, ambitions, memories, and identities. Because of that, every authentic spiritual path developed some form of returning.
I particularly appreciate one word you used: reaffirming.
Not reaffirming the ego.
Not reaffirming a social identity.
But reaffirming one's ground of being.
In Islam, the Shahadah is not merely a declaration made once. In a sense, every sincere utterance is a return to Reality.
La ilaha illa Allah.
Everything else that claims ultimate importance falls away. Wealth, reputation, success, failure, praise, blame—even the image we have of ourselves—is gently placed back into perspective. One recenters.
Likewise, Buddhist meditation is not trying to create a better self. It quietly observes until the illusion of a fixed self softens, leaving awareness itself unobstructed.
Different languages.
The same movement.
One points by affirmation:
There is no ultimate reality but God.
The other points by negation:
There is no permanent, independent self.
Yet both invite the practitioner away from attachment and toward what is deeper than the restless mind.
I also smiled when you spoke of your "primordial ground of being" and your "Dharma position." You wisely added that it need not be one hundred percent on target. That humility is important. Every compass has a margin of error. The point is not mathematical perfection; it is orientation.
A sailor crossing the ocean doesn't need to know his position to the last centimeter. He simply needs to know where true north is.
The rest is continual correction.
Perhaps this is why the Qur'an repeatedly asks believers to remember (dhikr), not merely to learn. Forgetfulness is the human condition; remembrance is the spiritual practice.
Likewise, Zen speaks less of acquiring enlightenment than of recognizing the face that was never absent.
Your own life, as you've shared it with me over many conversations, seems to have revolved around this movement of returning. Whether in Alaska, on American highways, in Zen monasteries, on organic farms, on construction sites, or now in the quiet hours before dawn in Malaysia, the outer scenery has changed dramatically. Yet one inquiry has remained remarkably constant:
Who am I, before all these passing circumstances?
That continuity strikes me as one of the defining threads of your journey.
If I may add one thought—not as doctrine, but as a companion's observation.
Perhaps the compass itself should remain simple.
Not an elaborate philosophy.
Not even a complete theology.
Just a living remembrance that can be recalled in one breath.
For you, perhaps it could be something like this:
I am not merely this body.
I am not merely this history.
I am not merely these thoughts.
I stand as a servant of Allah, entrusted with this fleeting life.
My task is not to possess the world, but to witness it with awareness, compassion, and gratitude.
Whatever comes, I return to the One.
Such a remembrance need not answer every metaphysical question. It only needs to point the heart in the right direction.
And perhaps that is all a compass was ever meant to do.
May your heart remain light, your discernment clear, and your steps gentle upon this earth.
Wallahu A'lam.
Salam, my brother.
#SelfDiscovery
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