When someone asks me what my religion is, I pause before giving an answer. If I don't know the person well or I don't want to encourage a long conversation, I simply say "I'm a Muslim." If I'm feeling talkative (which is rare) or the person who is asking really wants to know and isn't just making small talk (which is even rarer), I answer, "I have no formal religion, but I'm a deeply spiritual person." Or I say, "I believe in God but I don't subscribe to any one religion." When feeling flippant, I might even say, "Religions give God a bad name."
Outwardly, my children are Buddhists, and they have the freedom to choose their religion when they grow up. Their father is a Rosicrucian mystic, and his story is even more convoluted than mine. I am, simply, a human being who reveres an unseen, unimaginable and unknowable Force that created the universe and touches our lives in profound, mysterious ways.
For some reason, I was moved to go into fasting this Ramadhan (it started last August 12). I haven't done so for many years, decades even, although I've made many half-hearted attempts to fast in recent years.
On my first day of fasting, I also begun to observe salat, the five-times-a-day prayer of Muslims. I had to reacquaint myself with the Arabic words and prayers, and the different movements, the prostrations and bowing. I also had to reread on how to do the ablution or cleansing that is required before one can pray.
It was a fascinating, and not exactly easy, journey of rediscovery for me. The words I knew in childhood came back easily to me, though I suspect I'm not doing everything exactly right yet. Paradoxically, there is great liberation in bowing low and prostating oneself before God. These acts of abject humility reaffirms certain truths I often take for granted: That God is enough. That there is only one God. That He has no equal. That all our other obsessions and preoccupations are unimportant compared with God. And that everything is nothing; there is only God.
While in prayer, I remember and live those truths. Back in the "real world," I tend to forget them.
Praying is relatively easy, but fasting is another story. As I write this post, my stomach is grumbling and I feel weak, tired and hungry. The Muslim way of fasting is different and more stringent than other types of fast. No food and water (not even a sip) is allowed from about 4:30 am to 6:30 pm. Furthermore, one also has to fast or abstain from "evil" thoughts and deeds. Yesterday, I quelled an urge to snap back at a very rude person. He was a tricycle driver who threw money at me because he had no change for it. It was a real struggle for me to hold my tongue and not fight with him. I firmly reminded myself, "Sabr, sabr." Patience, patience. Sabr is one of the things that fasting is supposed to be all about.
Today is my fourth day of fasting and praying. I'm weak, hungry, and I miss running. I cannot resume my training for obvious reasons. Yet I also feel light, clean, humble, reverent, and very thankful. God has been very kind to me and my family. I feel truly blessed.
Alhamdollillah.
No comments:
Post a Comment