Tuesday, 20 October 2009

The Sacred Ebb and Flow

This morning, I awoke to the sound of the prayers. It was beautiful. It was comforting. The rhythmic singing in a world of words that I cannot understand. It should be slightly... disconcerting - perhaps, it should be bathed in confused frustrations. This is not the case. All I feel is an understated peace and I wonder why the world, the one from which I sprang anyway, would feel such defensiveness and unease when confronted with this one. Their obviously misguided fear feels forced this morning. Wouldn't anyone, with a mind even slightly ajar, feel the same way when the prayer song swirls over and around them at 530am? Would they not feel the beauty that I do? How do we return, in any instance, to the the stark beauty that exists in this world of false conceptions?

I find I cannot sleep through the prayer. It is not my god, not my language, not my world but it seems to pull me just the same.

The physical:
A sultry Dubai
The desired:
Currently unconcerned with such pursuits
The feeling in the forefront:
Peaceful contentment
The smothering sense:
Tactile - the warmth and humidity of the cradle of life
In absence of misplaced action:
Questing to fulfill my sleep quota
If I were listening closely:
Echos of the Islamic morning prayer