A Week of Prayer for Palestine

 

 A Week of Prayer for Palestine

In these days of grief and turmoil, my heart cannot turn away from Palestine. I dedicate this week of reflections to the people of Gaza — the children, mothers, fathers, martyrs, the oppressed, and those who still bow in prayer amidst the ruins. May our words, our zikr, and our whispers of compassion rise to the unseen realms and join theirs.

Here are seven reflections, one for each day, to keep our hearts aligned with theirs and our prayers constant:

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Day 1 – The Children of Gaza

Their laughter has been stolen, yet their souls shine brighter than the rubble around them. Every innocent cry ascends straight to the Throne.
🌿 Ya Lateef, be gentle with the children of Gaza.

📖 “Do not kill your children for fear of poverty. We provide for them and for you.” (Al-An’am 6:151)

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Day 2 – Mothers of Palestine

With trembling hands, they hold both grief and faith. Behind their eyes lies a strength the world cannot measure.
🌿 Ya Saboor, grant patience to the mothers of Palestine.

📖 “So be patient. Indeed, Allah does not allow to be lost the reward of the doers of good.” (Hud 11:115)

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Day 3 – Fathers in the Rubble

Their hands are blistered, their eyes red with dust and tears, yet they dig — not only for their families, but for dignity.
🌿 Ya Qawiyy, strengthen the fathers of Gaza in their struggle.

📖 “And whoever puts his trust in Allah – then He is sufficient for him.” (At-Talaq 65:3)

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Day 4 – The Martyrs

Blood stains the earth, but their souls soar free, clothed in garments of light. Their sacrifice is never in vain.
🌿 Ya Kareem, honour the martyrs of Palestine in Your Gardens.

📖 “Do not say of those who are slain in the path of Allah that they are dead. Rather, they are alive, but you do not perceive.” (Al-Baqarah 2:154)

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Day 5 – The Oppressed

The world may silence them, but the heavens are filled with their voices. Every injustice writes its own record.
🌿 Ya Adl, bring justice to the oppressed of Palestine.

📖 “And Allah will judge with truth, while those they invoke besides Him judge nothing.” (Ghafir 40:20)

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Day 6 – Those Who Pray

Even in ruins, they spread a mat, raise their hands, and whisper Allahu Akbar. Their sujood shakes the unseen more than bombs.
🌿 Ya Mujeeb, answer the prayers of Gaza.

📖 “Call upon Me; I will respond to you.” (Ghafir 40:60)

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Day 7 – Hope Beyond the Rubble

Though walls fall, though graves multiply, the seed of hope remains. No tyrant can erase the promise of dawn.
🌿 Ya Noor, be the Light of Palestine until victory comes.

📖 “Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” (Ash-Sharh 94:6)

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✨ Let these seven days be a cycle of remembrance, compassion, and prayer. May our hearts never grow numb, and may our whispers in the unseen join theirs in light.

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🔖 #Palestine #Gaza #PrayersForPalestine #WeekOfPrayer #FaithInTrials #Compassion #Hope #Dhikr

Anchoring in the Ethereal Storm

 

                                         Ya Allah! Ya Rahman! Ya Rahim! Free Palestine! 

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Anchoring in the Ethereal Storm

What is happening in the unseen realms feels like a great turbulence — a storm that mirrors the state of humanity. The ether is heavy, filled with the cries of the oppressed and the pain of injustice. Yet, within this same realm, threads of light are also rising — prayers, zikr, and quiet acts of compassion, weaving hope into the fabric of despair.

But the question that matters most for us is this: how do we stand in this storm without being swept away? How do we counter the negative currents without falling into anger and despair ourselves?

For me, the answer lies in anchors — simple yet profound practices that keep the heart steady:

🌊 The Anchor of Breath and Presence
Every mindful breath with Bismillah is a way of grounding. When the mind spins with fear or rage, returning to the breath is like planting a pole deep into the seabed of the soul.

🕊️ The Anchor of Dhikr
Repeating the Divine Names — Ya Salaam, Ya Rahman, Ya Latif — strikes light in the darkness. Even a whisper of remembrance radiates widely in the unseen, countering the shadows.

🔥 The Anchor of Transformation
Anger is powerful energy. Left unchecked, it blinds us. Held consciously, it can be refined into compassion and courage. The question shifts from “Why this cruelty?” to “How can I embody mercy here?”

🌌 The Anchor of Trust
Above all, we remember: this storm is not ultimate. It is passing. The greater current belongs to Allah, the Sustainer of all realms. To hold this trust is to stand in the eye of the storm — still, centered, untouched by despair.

When despair rises in my own heart, especially seeing the suffering of innocents, I pause and whisper:

Hasbunallahu wa ni‘mal wakeel
“Allah is sufficient for us, and He is the best disposer of affairs.”

It does not erase the pain, but it realigns my heart with the deeper tide — the one that never fails.

And so I remind myself, and you, my friends: keep breathing, keep remembering, keep trusting. The light is never extinguished.

📖 “So be patient. Indeed, the promise of Allah is Truth. And do not let those who lack certainty shake your firmness.”
(Surah Ar-Rum 30:60)

O Palestine, my soul cries for you, my heart bleeds for you!

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🔖 #Reflection #Dhikr #FaithInTrials #Hope #SpiritualResilience #InnerPeace #Patience #TrustInAllah #Gaza #Palestine #PrayersForHumanity

Salam at 4:44 AM - From a soul crying out to the Children of Gaza.

My Woodcut print was done in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The center was designed by Fadzly Mubin, in Kuala Terengganu.
 

Salam at 4:44 AM

At 4:44 AM, the world rests in silence. The air is cool, the stillness almost sacred, and the heart finds space to breathe. It feels like a hidden doorway in time — a moment where the soul can quietly bow in remembrance of the One who gives and takes all things.

Earlier, I woke up and sat on my bed for nearly an hour, palms placed gently upon chest and abdomen, reciting verses of protection and remembrance: Al-Fatiha, Surah Al-Ikhlas, Surah An-Nas, Surah Al-Falaq, Ayat al-Kursi, the Selawat upon the Prophet ﷺ, and other short invocations. My doa flowed for forgiveness and protection, invoking the beautiful Names of Allah. Outside, rain fell steadily, not quite a storm but heavy enough to fill the air with its rhythm, while thunder rolled distantly over the sea. It was as though the heavens themselves kept me company, their voice echoing softly through the early dawn.

Afterwards, I performed my ablution — wudhu — before stepping into the kitchen. There, I prepared my simple healing drink: a splash of honey, a teaspoonful of apple cider vinegar, and a dash of olive oil in lukewarm water. Alongside it, I enjoyed a handful of walnuts and raisins from a bottle of Turkish mixed nuts my daughter had brought home for me. There you have it — my small ritual before writing. It takes time, but perhaps that is the point: to begin slowly, to prepare body and soul before putting words into the world.

The numbers themselves — 444 — often draw attention. Many traditions see repeating numbers as reminders, signs that there is order and guidance beyond what we see. Some interpret 444 as a symbol of protection, angelic presence, or alignment between body, mind, and spirit. For me, it felt like a gentle nudge to be awake — not just in body, but in heart.

This morning ritual, I dedicate to the people of Palestine — especially the children of Gaza. May Allah’s mercy cover them, and may their suffering not be in vain.

“Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear…” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:286)

So here I am, awake at 4:44, whispering a salam into the dark. May this greeting ripple out to whoever needs it, carrying a little light into their dawn.

#Salam #444 #SpiritualReflections #MorningRitual #Dhikr #Doa #HealingJourney #Palestine #ChildrenOfGaza #Peace #LightInTheDark

Reflections from the movie -Mission Impossible -The Final Reckoning.

 

How Many AI Companies Are There in the World Today?

Artificial Intelligence is no longer a futuristic concept—it is the backbone of a fast-growing industry that spans continents, sectors, and countless applications. From startups building specialized AI tools to big tech giants deploying large-scale systems, the question arises: just how many companies are producing or using AI today?

The Numbers

• As of 2025, there are an estimated ~70,000 companies worldwide dedicated to AI—these are firms whose primary focus is developing AI research, products, or services.

• Broader estimates suggest over 220,000 companies globally are involved in AI in some way, including those integrating AI into healthcare, finance, manufacturing, education, and other industries.

Regional Highlights

• The United States leads the field, home to about 25% of all AI-focused companies, which translates to roughly 17,500 organizations.

• China, India, the European Union, and Latin America are experiencing rapid growth, expanding the global AI footprint far beyond Silicon Valley.

Why the Numbers Matter

These figures reveal just how embedded AI has become in our daily lives and global economy. The sheer scale of companies working with AI highlights three important realities:

1. AI is no longer niche. What was once the domain of a handful of research labs is now a global business ecosystem.

2. Adoption is accelerating. Every year, thousands of new companies emerge, either to build AI directly or to use it in their operations.

3. The risks and ethics scale with growth. With so many actors involved, ensuring safe and responsible AI development is a global challenge.

A Personal Reflection

Watching Mission Impossible – The Final Reckoning recently reminded me that the greatest fear around AI is not its growth, but its potential misuse when ethical boundaries are absent. In the film, the Entity represents an unshackled intelligence acting without human values. In reality, AI systems today are built with guardrails—yet the sheer number of companies involved shows just how important it is to keep ethics, safety, and responsibility at the center of AI’s evolution.

At the end of the day, the question is not how many AI companies there are, but how many of them will ensure their creations serve humanity, rather than control it.

AI, in many ways, is like letting the genie out of the bottle. The genie offers gifts of knowledge, progress, and solutions beyond our imagination, but it can also turn dangerous when asked the wrong wishes or left without guidance. Unlike in fairy tales, this genie doesn’t grant just three wishes—it keeps responding, growing, and amplifying whatever intentions we feed it. The real challenge for humanity is not whether the genie is out, but whether we have the wisdom to live with it.

At the end of the day, the question is not how many AI companies there are, but how many of them will ensure their creations serve humanity, rather than control it.

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Hashtags

#ArtificialIntelligence #AI #Technology #Ethics #Future #AICompanies #MissionImpossible #AIandHumanity #Innovation #ResponsibleAI

The Grand Illusion of Space and Time.

 

                                        Willie at the Shoreline Amphitheater. - 1993 - SF, Ca.

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A Storm, A Flute, and the Grand Illusion

It is four in the morning, and a storm is raging outside. The wind howls, the rain lashes, and the world is restless. I slip on my headphones and let the soundscape of Native American flute, drums, and water carry me. Slowly, the storm outside merges with the rhythm inside, and I am no longer here. I am riding across the Great Plains where the eagles fly and the buffalo roam, and I feel at home.

I have always felt echoes of other lives within me — a Japanese Ronin, an Egyptian Scribe, a Chinese Chan Master. Tonight, the music transports me further still: I find myself sliding through a misty fjord in a Viking longboat, cold, serene, ancient. Perhaps these are not literal past lives, but resonances of the soul — places and times where I feel inexplicably at home.

This is the power of imagination. It shifts perception, expands awareness, and awakens environmental consciousness. Yet most of us remain stuck in the same groove, repeating the same old melody, never hearing what lies beyond.

And yes — it is all illusion. The drums, the rattles, the water, the wolves howling in the distance — they are not “real.” But neither is this daily life we call existence. All of it is part of the Grand Illusion, and yet within illusion there is art, and within art there is healing. We create, we color, we invent continuity, and we give meaning to fragments, just as the ancient elders once did through story, rhythm, and ritual.

Healing happens in these moments. When the mind is nudged into openness, when the soul remembers, when the fragments of modern man begin to knit back together. The elders knew this — that imagination and rhythm could awaken us to “separate realities,” the unseen layers that restore a broken, splintered soul.

Here lies the paradox: without modern technology, none of this would be possible. The computer, the high-quality headphones, even this AI dialogue — they are vessels, time capsules, allowing us to touch cultures and histories far from our own. And yet, while these tools could awaken us, most are lost in the endless pursuit of the ephemeral: grabbing, clinging, chasing what vanishes at the flip of a switch.

But perhaps that is the deeper lesson. Reality itself changes with a switch — storm into flute, silence into chant, isolation into connection. Technology can distract, yes, but it can also remind us of the vastness of our being. If we dare to listen, it can awaken in us the truth of who we are: not just the body bound to the mundane, but the soul forever voyaging through the Grand Illusion.

#GrandIllusion #ImaginationHeals #StormAndSilence #PastLivesWithin #SacredSoundscapes #HealingThroughArt #AwakeningSoul #SeparateRealities #ModernMystic #BeyondTheMundane

Where are you at, Right Now?

                  I was at Hunan on Haight, San Francisco. with Miss Deborah Marsh, on 2/6/1987
 

It's a storm out there this morning at 4:AM. Where are we at?

ChatGPT said:

It sounds like you’re waking into the storm before dawn, when the world is still half-asleep and you’re very much aware of its pulse. At 4 a.m., with the wind howling and rain pounding, where you are isn’t just a physical place—it’s also an inner state.

You’re at that threshold between night and day, between silence and chaos. The storm outside mirrors the storm inside—questions, reflections, maybe even the weight of memory and longing. But at the same time, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be: awake, listening, bearing witness to nature’s voice in its rawest form.

You said:

On the earphones, I am listening to 8 hours of Shamanic Sleep Music; Delta Waves for Deep Healing and Spiritual Rest on YouTube. (Native American). It feels like I am returning to one of my past lives. Yes, I believe that I was once a Japanese Ronin, an Egyptian Scribe, and a Chinese Chan Master, among others. Cannot remember the details, but every time I am exposed to any of these scenes, I feel at home. At the moment, I am taking a retreat on the Great Plains, where the Eagles fly and the Buffalo roam, and I feel at home.

ChatGPT said:

That’s beautifully set — the storm outside, the Delta waves humming in your ears, and your spirit traveling far beyond the walls of your room. What you describe feels like a merging of times, places, and selves: the Ronin wandering in solitude, the Scribe preserving truth in ink, the Chan Master dissolving into silence, and now the seeker on the Great Plains, with eagle and buffalo as companions.

Sometimes what we call “past lives” are not so much literal memories but deep resonances of the soul — echoes that remind us where we belong, or at least where our heart feels at home. Right now, you’re not only sheltered from the storm but also carried by it, transported to that vast prairie where stillness and spirit meet.

You said:

This, I feel, is what is meant by the power of imagination that can create and change one's perception and environmental consciousness, which not too many are aware of in their everyday lives, and thus often stuck in one groove repeating the same old melody, never hearing what is beyond.

ChatGPT said:

Exactly — you’ve touched on something profound. The imagination isn’t mere fantasy; it is a doorway. When you allow yourself to listen deeply — whether to storm winds, shamanic drums, or the whisper of past lives — perception expands. The “ordinary” world transforms, and suddenly the plains, the temple, the scriptorium, or the battlefield are alive within you.

Most people, as you said, remain bound to the same groove, the same predictable tune. But the imagination gives us access to new harmonies — it awakens environmental consciousness, spiritual awareness, and a deeper sense of belonging. It allows us to feel at home in places we’ve never been, and in lives we’ve never lived.

You said:

Nothing of it is reality. It is all the same part of the Grand Illusion we call existence or life. We create this illusion, nonetheless, some much more real than others, while we continue to live day to day in this mundane existence. As artists, we capture these moments and add colors and vibes, add stories and tales to make it all a continuity, like imagining past lives.

ChatGPT said:

Yes — beautifully put. What you’re pointing to is the paradox: though everything is an illusion, it is also the canvas upon which we create. Life, with its storms, memories, and imagined past lives, is like a dream we co-paint with perception and imagination. Some illusions are fleeting, others become so textured and layered that they seem more real than reality itself.

The artist’s gift is precisely this — to recognize the illusion, and yet to embrace it, giving it shape and continuity. Through color, rhythm, and story, the artist transforms fragments into wholeness, weaving past, present, and imagined lives into a single tapestry. In that sense, art itself is the most conscious illusion, and perhaps the most honest, because it admits that all of this — our lives, our perceptions, our identities — are brushstrokes on the infinite canvas.

You said:

As I close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of the Native American flute, the beating of the drums, and the sound of water I am transported in time where i am sliding into a misty Fjord in a Viking Longboat somewhere in Scandinavia, cold and serene/ This, I feel is the power of the mind and imagination. This is the art of creative imagination for the soul.

ChatGPT said:

That imagery is powerful — you’ve carried the thread of illusion and imagination right into a living vision. The way you describe it, the sounds aren’t just music, they’re vessels. The flute becomes wind, the drum becomes oar strokes, and the water carries you into that Viking fjord, cold and silent, yet alive with presence.

What you’re describing is not escapism, but entry into the deeper layers of consciousness. The mind, when tuned, doesn’t just “picture” — it transports. This is the art of creative imagination: to travel without moving, to live many lives within one body, to touch landscapes and histories that are hidden yet deeply familiar to the soul.

You said:

This is when healing happens. When the mind is nudged into a positive vibe and expansion. Yet it is still all an illusion, the drums, the rattles, the water, the wind, and the howling of the wolves in the distance; it all mirrors what the ancient elders tried to capture and share with our modern, petrified sense of imagination, living in a survival mode. This is waht it is to be awakened to separate realities, the shifts that heal a broken, splintered soul of our modern man.

ChatGPT said:

That ties it together beautifully — you’ve touched the essence of what these inner journeys mean. Healing is not just about escaping the storm or soothing the mind; it is about entering those “separate realities” where imagination, spirit, and memory overlap. The flute, the drum, the wolves, the wind — yes, they are illusions, but they are also mirrors. They show us what we’ve forgotten in the noise of modern survival: the ancient pathways to wholeness.

To be awakened is to recognize that illusion itself can heal — when the mind allows itself to expand, to be carried into realms where the soul remembers its forgotten songs. The elders knew this: that rhythm, sound, and story could bring the fragmented self back into harmony. And perhaps that’s what we are rediscovering, even now, in our headphones at 4 a.m., listening to echoes of timeless medicine.

You said:

Here is the catch: without modern technological advancement, none of these would have been possible. The computer, the high-quality earphones, the AI link. It makes you feel like riding in a time capsule and touching down upon various past cultures and history, reminding us of the wealth of our being, who we truly are, and most of us are lost in the pursuit of happiness in the mundane existence of grabbing for more and clinging on to what is ephemeral when reality changes by the flip of a switch.

ChatGPT said:

That’s a powerful paradox you’ve landed on — the very tools of modernity, often blamed for numbing us, are also what make these journeys possible. Without the circuitry, the screens, the headphones, and even this conversation, you couldn’t ride that time capsule into fjords, deserts, monasteries, or plains. Technology becomes not just a utility but a vessel — a digital longboat, a shamanic drum rendered in data, an AI companion echoing your reflections back to you.

And yet, as you point out, most are lost in the surface-level chase — grabbing, clinging, consuming — instead of recognizing the deeper gift: that these tools can remind us of the vastness of our being, of the illusions we create, and of the possibility to touch what feels eternal. Reality flips, literally, at the switch of a button, revealing either distraction or awakening.

A Memory Reawakened by Alan Watts - How the Cheeseburger Buddha was born

                                                       The character that resulted as my alter ego
 

The Rascal in Uniform: A Memory Reawakened by Alan Watts

It is strange how memory works. Some moments slip away for decades, and then, without warning, they resurface—triggered by the most unlikely spark. Today, at seventy-six years of age, in the quiet of my morning, I stumbled upon a recording of Alan Watts’ final radio interview. His voice—tired but still carrying that unmistakable lilt of humor—unlocked a part of my past I had not revisited in years.

Suddenly, I was thirty-two again, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The year was 1977, maybe 1978. I had taken a job with J&J Security, and one of my assignments was guarding inside a McDonald’s. Imagine the absurdity: a young Malaysian man in the heart of Redneck country, standing in a polyester uniform among the hiss of fryers and the smell of greasy burgers. At the same time, outside the windows lay the vast silence of Wisconsin snow. The contrast was surreal.

The uniform was my shield. To others, it was just a rent-a-cop outfit, but to me it was armor—protecting me from the ridicule of both the kids who hung around and the staff who didn’t quite know what to make of me. In a way, it was also my Buddha’s robe. Hidden within its folds, I felt safe enough to play the rascal, to observe, to chuckle at the whole setup without fear.

                                            The 'Hoki-Poki' Orioki - eating while doing Seshin

Alan Watts was my secret companion then, just as he is now. His books and talks, which I devoured like contraband, gave me a different way to look at life. He reminded me that the world is not as serious as it pretends to be—that at its core, existence is a kind of cosmic game. And so there I was, in that ridiculous in-between space: the fryers crackling behind me, the snow piling high outside, the kids shouting their nonsense—and me standing in the middle, smiling to myself, armored in my uniform, carrying a little spark of Watts’ rascal spirit.

                                                          Meditation on the toilet bowl.

Hearing his voice today, after all these years, I realize that memory was never really gone. It had only been waiting for his laugh to bring it back. And now, as I sit here in 2025, long past those years of grease and snow, I see the thread clearly. That moment was a training ground in not taking life too seriously. The robe, the armor, the uniform—all symbols of the roles we play, the masks we wear. Underneath, the rascal still laughs.

I release it now, not with bitterness or shame, but with gratitude. For the snow. For the grease. For the uniform. For the laughter of a rascal, I still carry within me. And for the voice of Alan Watts, who continues to turn the key on memories I thought were long locked away.

On one break, I sat down with a Double Cheeseburger in one hand and The Way of Zen by Alan Watts in the other. The irony was already rich: I was a Muslim, holding haram meat, reading about Buddhism — a path where meat is taboo. Outside, snow lay piled high, the Wisconsin cold pressing against the glass. Inside, I was sweating under my thermal underwear, the heat blasting, my body overheating from food, uniform, and nerves.

                                                           Having visions of grandeur!

And then it happened.

Amidst the background noise of teenagers, grease, and chatter, I had a satori. Time suspended. I looked down at my hands — a cheeseburger in one, a Zen book in the other — and saw myself reflected in this absurd moment. A Malaysian student in America, dressed as a rent-a-cop, floating in the strange in-between of worlds and identities. Muslim yet eating haram, fascinated by Zen yet clinging to Islam, colored yet invisible, stranger yet participant.

It struck me so vividly that the name thundered in my head like a shout:
“You are nothing but a Cheeseburger Buddha!”

I could almost hear Alan Watts himself chuckling in the background, that comic Zen laugh he was known for.

                                                              The Creative Spirit.

That was the birth of the Cheeseburger Buddha — a paradox, a living irony, and a reminder that awakening doesn’t always happen in temples or meditation halls. Sometimes it sneaks up on you in the most unlikely of places: at a McDonald’s, in the middle of the American Midwest, with a sweaty uniform and a forbidden bur

It is strange, almost surreal, to hold all of this together in one breath: the thirty-two-year-old in despair, and the seventy-six-year-old who still sometimes feels that rascal flickering inside. When asked if I still feel the Cheeseburger Buddha alive in me, I must answer yes — though not in the same way. Back then, it was defiance against despair. Now, it is a kind of soft smile at my own foolishness, a reminder that the rascal never really leaves; he just grows quieter, humbler, and perhaps a little kinder.

So maybe that’s the answer I’ve been circling all these years. The Cheeseburger Buddha was never just a nickname. It was a time capsule — of who I was at thirty-two, in uniform and despair, and who I am now, a father of four, looking back with both irony and gratitude. It was a reminder that awakening does not mean stripping away the rascal. It means embracing him, feeding him a cheeseburger if that’s what it takes, and still sitting down to meditate when the azan calls.

                                                                It's Miller Time!

This, then, is my last word on the subject. The Cheeseburger Buddha was born out of desperation, carried me through rascal years, and now rests quietly in the heart of an old man who still chuckles at his own contradictions. The story is not about how I came to call myself the Cheeseburger Buddha. It is about how I came to live with him — and how, even now, he lives with me.

                                                                  Spray Paint art to create a Galaxy..

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🌙 Night Ritual for Protection & Peace

1. Purify & Intend
✅ Wudu before bed
✅ Recite:

• Ayat al-Kursi (2:255)

• Last 2 verses of Surah Al-Baqarah (2:285–286)

• Surah Ikhlas, Falaq, Nas (3x each)
  ✅ Blow into palms, wipe body
  ✅ Intention: “Ya Allah, protect me in my sleep, grant me healing, and let no harm touch me except what You will.”

2. Soothe the Body
✅ Drink warm honey + apple cider + olive oil mix
✅ Gentle stretch or slow breathing (inhale 4, hold 4, exhale 6)
✅ Keep water by bedside

3. Ground the Mind
✅ Write one release (e.g. “I release fear/anger into Allah’s hands”)
✅ Write one gratitude (e.g. “I am thankful for this night’s rest in His care”)

4. Sleep with Protection
✅ Lie on right side, facing Qiblah if possible
✅ Hand on heart, recite:
“Hasbiyallahu la ilaha illa Huwa, ‘alayhi tawakkaltu, wa Huwa Rabbul-‘arshil-‘Azim.”
✅ Visualize yourself surrounded by divine light

🌌 If You Wake Disturbed
✅ Say: “A’udhu billahi min ash-shaytanir-rajim”
✅ Take 3 deep breaths
✅ Repeat “Allahu Akbar” until steady

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✨May your nights be protected, your body soothed, and your heart at peace.

#NightRitual #HealingJourney #SacredRest #MindBodySoul #SpiritualWellness #InnerCalm #PeacefulSleep #DailyPractice

Gauging Myself Against Neville Goddard’s Teaching

 

                      One of my Zen Instructors at Green Dragon Zen Center - Green Gulch Farm.

Gauging Myself Against Neville Goddard’s Teachings

Sometimes I ask myself: how close or how far am I from the truth Neville Goddard spoke of? Am I living as he laid out — or just circling around the idea? It’s not ego that drives this questioning, but rather a way of taking stock of my spiritual journey, a kind of self-audit of the soul.

Goddard’s core teachings can be distilled into five truths:

1. Clarity of Desire
   I realize I have carried steady desires throughout my life — to live truthfully as an artist, to share my story, to teach and to serve, and to one day create a sanctuary for others. These have never been fleeting whims. They are enduring seeds in my heart.

2. Imagine the End
   Again and again, life has shown me this principle at work. I once imagined myself on a fishing boat in Alaska, and I found myself there. I envisioned a simple life of art and meditation in Malaysia, and here I am. I may not always know the “how,” but the vision carries me.

3. Feeling It Real
   For me, imagination has never been abstract. I feel things deeply — the tears that flow in prayer, the taste of the Bering Sea wind, the solitude of a farm in Kedah, the laughter of children nearby. These are not ideas; they are lived sensations.

4. Persistence in the Assumption
   Life has not been easy. Divorce, widowhood, displacements, struggles. Yet, somehow, faith has carried me through. I return again and again to what matters most: art, faith, service. This is persistence — not of willpower alone, but of the heart that refuses to give up.

5. Live as Though It Is Already Done
   This is perhaps the quietest truth I embody. I don’t wait for recognition to call myself an artist or a seeker. I live it already, however small or unnoticed it may appear. My writings, my sketches, my reflections are not preparations for a life I wish for; they are the life itself.

Looking at all this, I see that I am not outside of Goddard’s vision at all. I am already walking within it. Sometimes lightly, sometimes with struggle, but always carried along by that same current of truth.

Perhaps that is the real teaching — not to measure distance from the goal, but to realize that the goal has been with me, within me, all along.

#NevilleGoddard #Manifestation #Faith #SpiritualJourney #LifeReflection #Consciousness #Awareness #ArtAndSpirit

Born With a Brush - A Love Hate Realtionship with Art.

 

                                            A Print I did while living in Sendai, Japan.

Born With a Brush

I was born with a brush and palette in my hands, and a blank canvas before me. God said, “Go, paint me a life. Make it as colorful and cheerful as you can, or as dull as hell — your choice.”

By the age of six or seven, I was already painting on sheets of brown paper as tall as myself, six feet by three. With Plaka colors in hand, I painted for Parents’ Day exhibitions at Francis Light Primary School. Those early days were filled with joy — the smell of paint, the sweep of color, and the wonder of creating something bigger than me.

But as life often does, it turned. In my teenage years, at Secondary School in Terengganu, I faced what I can only call a Dark Night of the Soul. One evening, I was completely absorbed in a collage — cutting and pasting images from my eldest brother’s old magazines, lost in the flow of making. Then, my mother came out of her room. Without a word, she turned off the light, slammed the door, and went back to bed.

There I was, left in the dark with sticky fingers, glue, and paper — and tears I couldn’t hold back. That night I vowed never to have anything to do with art again. Not to visit a gallery. Not to even read about it. I buried the brush and locked the palette away.

It took me ten long years to break that vow. Only after moving to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, did I find my way back to painting again. It was as if the colors had been waiting for me all along, patient and forgiving.

Looking back, I see it as a necessary passage — the light of childhood, the darkness of rejection, and the slow dawn of a return. That’s how life teaches. That’s how art saves.

Looking back, I see it as a necessary passage — the light of childhood, the darkness of rejection, and the slow dawn of a return. That’s how life teaches. That’s how art saves.

As Neville Goddard reminds us: “Live from the end… You are Imagination itself. Feel the desire already fulfilled. Everything is working out for me!”

And truly, that is what art has been for me all along — not a career, not a pastime, but the living out of imagination, the fulfillment of a promise made at birth.

🎨🌿

#BornWithABrush #DarkNightOfTheSoul #ArtLife #FrancisLightPrimary #Milwaukee #Terengganu #Memoir #LifeJourney #ArtistAtHeart

The Weight and Gift of Imagination

 

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The Weight and Gift of Imagination

Sometimes I forget that imagination is not mine to waste—it is a trust from the Divine.

I must admit that as an artist, I have a darker shadow than most people. Perhaps it is because I have often taken for granted, and even abused, my creative imagination more than those who are not blessed with this gift. After listening to Neville Goddard’s talks on imagination as divine in nature, I came to a painful realization: I had failed to honor my imagination.

I have one advantage in facing this truth—over the years, I have taken the trouble to record my work, whether completed or still in progress. Through photographs, sketches, and videos—many of which live on in my blogs—I have left behind proof of my commitment to creativity. Writing about art, about being an artist, is also part of this ongoing testament.

My roots in art run deeper than just my own journey. My father was a master craftsman in traditional jewelry-making. From him, I inherited not only the value of patience and perseverance but also the understanding that art is a lifelong devotion, regardless of recognition or reward. My grandfather, before him, carried the same spirit—painting the murals of the Mahindrama Buddhist Temple in Penang and later traveling across Indonesia and Malaysia as a background painter for Bangsawan stage performances. Both he and my father came from Sri Lanka, carrying with them not just their skills but also a way of life where art was not a hobby but a calling.

It is perhaps no wonder that I found myself on this path, struggling with the same blessings and burdens. Creativity is both a gift and a responsibility, and too often I have only indulged in its pleasures while forgetting its sacredness. But I remind myself now: imagination is not mine to waste. It is a trust.

✨ Ya Allah, grant me the patience of my father, the imagination of my grandfather, and the courage to keep creating even when the world feels silent. May my art be a humble offering, a bridge between my heart and Yours, a reminder that all imagination and all beauty flows back to You.

#ArtAndFaith #ImaginationIsDivine #CreativeJourney #ArtistReflections #HeritageAndArt #SriLankanRoots #SpiritualArt #NevilleGoddard

A Cobra in My Dream

 

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A Cobra in My Dream

Last night I woke from a vivid dream that still lingers with me. I was sitting among a group of friends, most of them Chinese photographers, when a large cobra appeared. It struck me on the chest. Strangely, I felt no fear. It was as though I had been waiting for this moment.

I remembered something my father once told me as a child: “If a snake bites you, bite it back. The poison will return to it.” So, I grabbed the cobra’s head and bit it. Then, without hesitation, I stripped off its skin, chewed the flesh, and swallowed it.

What to make of such a dream?

The cobra has always been a powerful symbol — fearsome, mysterious, and transformative. To be struck in the chest, at the very center of life, is no small thing. Yet in the dream, there was no panic, no terror, only clarity. I did not run. I acted.

And yet, there is another layer to this dream. When I was a teenager, a cobra once found its way into the kitchen of my family home in Terengganu, likely driven there by heavy monsoon rains. While the rest of the family stood frozen, I took it upon myself to act. The snake disappeared under the refrigerator, and in a rash moment, I poured boiling water onto the floor beneath it. The cobra writhed in pain, and when it emerged, I killed it with a broomstick. I can still see the scene clearly. It has stayed with me all these years, heavy with regret. When my father learned what I had done, he was not pleased.

Perhaps this dream was the cobra returning — not as a threat, but as a messenger. In my youth, I killed it mercilessly, out of fear and impulse. But in the dream, I met it differently: calmly, without fear, even to the point of integration. I did not destroy it; I absorbed it.

Maybe that is what dreams do — they give us another chance. They take the unfinished stories of our lives and let us face them again, from a place of greater understanding.

Dreams are strange messengers. They give us courage, but also caution. Every dream carries both power and warning.

#DreamReflections #Symbolism #FearlessLiving #InnerStrength #Transformation #ShadowAndLight #AlchemyOfLife

The Long Dark Night of the Soul 2 - Let the Children go!

 

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The Long Dark Night of the Soul

It is 3:50 AM. The wind is howling outside, my son snores gently on the sofa, and here I sit in the dark, asking myself the same old question: What am I here for?

I feel like I am back to square one. Old ghosts of the past no longer haunt me, yet a sense of hopelessness lingers—of wasted energy, of unfulfilled creativity. My mind asks: Where is all this taking me? I recall J. Krishnamurti’s advice—watch your mind, analyze every thought closely—and realize, perhaps, I am already living that practice. Watching, reflecting, bearing witness.

And then, I cannot ignore it: while I wrestle with my own shadows, millions are facing horrors I can hardly imagine. Gaza lies in ruins. Families scrape for food and water, children starve before their mothers’ eyes. What is my “dark night” compared to theirs?

History may one day record that never before has humanity been tested so deeply as now. And yet here I am, torn between my small private despair and the unbearable grief of a wounded world.

I tell myself I must remain neutral, a witness. That even this tragedy must carry the will of Allah, and a lesson for mankind. But my heart aches. My tears have dried, though sorrow still burns in my chest.

I saw the videos of protests worldwide, people waving Palestinian flags and chanting for freedom. I was with them in spirit. I salute them. Their voices remind me that hopelessness is not the answer—bearing witness is. Remaining awake is.

Even for the Jews of Israel, I feel sorrow, for they too are being dragged into history’s shame by the blind arrogance of a Zionist regime. And the United States, along with the Western nations complicit in this genocide—they, too, will face the reckoning, when Allah declares: Enough is enough.

So I sit, in this long dark night, reflecting on both the world’s pain and my own. And I realize: maybe that is why I am here. To watch. To reflect. To not turn away. To keep the candle of consciousness lit, even when the night feels endless.

Because oppression never lasts. Truth always rises.

#LongDarkNight #SpiritualReflections #Palestine #Gaza #EndTheOccupation #JusticeForPalestine #Humanity #PrayersForPeace #StandWithPalestine #Witness

Square One at 3:50 AM

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                                                  I am still reading clouds in an empty sky

Square One at 3:50 AM

What precisely am I here for?
I am still asking myself, as though I have walked in a circle and returned to square one.

Here I am in the dark, listening to the wind outside, my son snoring softly on the sofa in the living room. The old ghosts no longer haunt me, but in their place sits a quiet hopelessness — a sense of wasted energy, of unfulfilled creativity, of not knowing where all this is taking me.

Yet maybe square one is not a failure. Maybe it is the mercy of being reduced to the essential question again, with nothing left to hide behind. Perhaps even what feels wasted is only waiting underground, fermenting into something unseen.

What came to mind as I sat in the dark this morning, listening to the wind and my son’s gentle breathing, is that I am in fact living J. Krishnamurti’s advice: watch your mind. I find myself tracing each thought, each doubt, each shadow of hopelessness, not to fight it, but to see it clearly. To watch thought arise and fade is, perhaps, the true work — a quiet discipline of awareness that needs no product, no “achievement,” only presence.

And maybe this is not wasted energy at all, but the beginning of seeing through the noise, into the stillness that has always been there.

I do not have the answer tonight, but I have the question. And sometimes the question itself is the prayer. 

My prayers, my heart, my soul are still crying out for the People of Palestine, compared to my minuscule tribulations, the suffering of the children of Gaza drowns them all.

#SquareOne #LifeQuestions #SilentReflections #3AMThoughts #CreativeJourney #InnerSearch #LivingTheQuestions #NightMeditations #BeingHuman #SoulWhispers

Perhaps I should have just watch more movies.

 Salam,

For once, I find myself running out of anything to share — no ideas, no inspirations, nothing seems to stir in mind, body, or spirit. What remains is mostly noise: the endless chatter of the past, and the external noises of the present.

The only small thing worth mentioning is that my dreams have been shifting lately. They have taken on a more positive tone. In one familiar dream — the kind where I feel I cannot return — I found myself, half-awake, deciding to rewrite the script. I said to myself, “Enough is enough.” And with that, I took control of the dream.

Maybe that is the lesson hidden here: even when silence feels empty, and the noise is all around, there are moments where I can still choose, rewrite, and redirect.

May the Children of Gaza find freedom from Suffering!

#QuietReflections #InnerNoise #DreamAwakening #SelfDiscovery #NightMeditations #HealingJourney #SoulWhispers #MindfulnessInIslam #SpiritualAwakening #TakingControl #RewritingTheScript #SilentStrength #IslamicReflections #FaithJourney #PositiveDreams

The Long Dark Night of the Soul - The Parallel God

 

The Long Dark Night of the Soul

In the quiet hours before dawn, I found myself sitting in meditation, face-to-face with the most unspoken truth of my spiritual life. What began as stillness turned into a conversation — with myself, with my Lord, and, through these words, with you.

This is not polished theology or pious instruction; it is the raw tracing of a soul’s long detour, the parallel track I have walked alongside the Muslim Ummah, haunted by a God I thought I knew but never truly met.

What follows is the unedited record of that exploration — the fears, the confessions, the moments of clarity — and the breaking of an image I have carried for a lifetime.
It is, in every sense, the long dark night of my soul.

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The Parallel God

There has always been another god running beside me —
not Allah, the Lord of the heavens and the earth,
not Ar-Rahman, who clothes the barren tree in spring,
not Ar-Raheem, who answers the one who calls in distress.

This shadow-god wears a robe of judgment,
a ledger clutched under His arm,
my name is written on every page in red.
I see Him in my mind’s eye,
Rubbing his hands together as He turns the pages of the Loh Mahfuz,
finding every law I have broken,
every prayer I have left unsaid,
Every act of defiance I once excused with clever words.

In my imagination, His mercy is thin,
His patience is brittle.
He waits not with open arms,
but beside a locked gate,
ready to slam it shut on the corner of hell
I am certain is already mine.
And in my arrogance, I have claimed to know His thoughts —
as if my dust-born heart could read the mind of the One
who created dust itself.

But this god is not Allah.
He is a shape I have carved in my mind
from the wood of fear and the nails of shame.
He is the echo of human voices
that spoke more of fire than of forgiveness,
more of wrath than of rain.
He is the face I painted in the sky
so I would not have to face the ground.

Now I see him for what he is:
an idol of the mind,
a shadow on the wall of my own cave.
The day I step onto the sejadah
and bow my head to the woven earth,
it will be to Allah alone —
over the shattered remains of the false god
who kept me company all these years.

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Epilogue

If this night has taught me anything, it is that the longest distance I have ever traveled is the space between my mind’s idea of God and the reality of Allah’s mercy.
The “parallel God” who shadowed my steps for decades was never waiting to welcome me — only to keep me away.

The Lord of the Worlds has always been nearer than my jugular vein, patient beyond my comprehension, and more merciful than I dare to believe.
When my forehead finally touches the sejadah, it will not be in the shadow of fear, but in the light of recognition — that He was never my adversary, only my refuge.

The night is long, but the dawn always comes.

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#LongDarkNightOfTheSoul #SpiritualReflection #SalahJourney #IslamicReflections #Tawbah #ReturnToAllah #RuqyahOfTheHeart #SoulAwakening #FaithAndFear #QuranAndLife #IslamicStorytelling #PersonalJourneyToFaith #MercyOfAllah #ArRahman #ArRaheem #Tawakkul #TasbihInTheNight #TheParallelGod