Walking on the Edge

Wallahu a'lam. God alone truly knows.

Death is indeed a sobering subject to contemplate. It has a way of stripping away our opinions, ambitions, and certainties until only the essentials remain. Whether we are rich or poor, famous or forgotten, every one of us walks toward the same horizon.

This morning the mystery of death visited me once again. Not in fear, but as a quiet reminder of my own impermanence. Was it asking if I am ready? Or simply inviting me to live this day a little more consciously? I cannot say.

I have always found comfort in the teachings of Ibn Arabi, who reminds us that existence is one and continuous. The forms change. Clay returns to the earth. Breath returns to the Spirit. Yet what is truly alive belongs to God and cannot be reduced to the changing forms through which it appears.

Still, knowing this does not make one immune to the human condition. Even those who trust in God may feel uncertainty when contemplating their final breath. Perhaps courage is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to entrust ourselves to the One who has carried us since before our first breath.

A lyric from an old song by Sons of Legion comes to mind:

"Walking on the edge, afraid to fall over to the other side, just waiting for the time to die... I don't mind."

There is something profoundly human in those words. Fear and acceptance coexist. We stand at the edge, aware that one day we must step beyond what is known. None of us knows exactly what lies on the other side.

The Qur'an tells us:

"Every soul shall taste death." (3:185)

I have often reflected on that choice of words. It does not say we become death. It says we taste it. A taste is a moment of experience, a passage, perhaps another unveiling of God's infinite mystery.

The Sufis speak of "dying before you die." To me, this means letting go of the illusion that I am separate from the rest of creation. It means surrendering pride, resentment, and the endless grasping of the ego long before the body returns to the earth.

Every morning I step outside and offer my Salam to Bumi Allah, God's Earth; Langit Allah, God's Sky; Lautan Allah, God's Seas; Udara Allah, God's Air; and to all of Allah's creatures. It is my simple way of remembering that I belong to this magnificent creation, not as its owner but as one of its caretakers.

Perhaps that is also a rehearsal for the final farewell.

If my last morning should come tomorrow or twenty years from now, I hope I will greet it as I greet every sunrise—with gratitude. There may still be tea to drink, birds to watch, a sketch to finish, or a kind word to offer a stranger. And when the final invitation arrives, I pray that I may greet it with the same quiet Salam.

Wallahu a'lam.

Peace be upon you all.