a daylight dream

Again, I fall speechless and teary-eyed. Last night, it was that— my eyes welling up, shattering at the holiness of life lived for love. I could not sleep at once, visions ebbed and flowed, surrendered to with ease. This February was sacred. Around here, the dance of spring commences— the haunting fragrance of fermented sunshine, the spiciness of fresh weeds and the lingering hours of sunlight. There was no way but to melt into the venerated beauty that I believed in back when it was cold, empty and so death-like. It was the month to live my truth— a gentle presence squirming into my days. The softness of working by and for love, spending the morning hours in the garden, digging the ground, pulling out weeds and planting chamomiles, watching Venus disappear with the daylight. I learned about the holiness of the earth, and it grounded me towards baby steps to take to radiate loving action for our world. By the end of the month, my companion arrived to our garden with two baby trees; a b

I’ve come to think of art very differently. What art was once: a painting, a song echoing through the strings of our hearts, a poem ripping apart our blindness and perhaps, everything beyond and in between tangible forms. I honour art. The pulse that drives my existence is artistry. But not this kind— not the one that lives in distinctive form. My pulse is real , limitless art. For me, art is the consciousness of co-creativity. It is the process in which the artist derives inspiration beyond what is seen and apparent, and melts into it, allowing the soul to serve the unseen through intentions and therefore, action. What truly is the product of art is the whole life of an artist. The entirety of it. Everything in an artist’s life mirrors his/her intentions. The beauty and originality of the artist’s actions become the natural consequence— and it does not merely have to be the painting or the song or the sculpture. It can be the way the artist gazes into the beauty of a flower; the wor

  Sometimes I like to imagine the world when I’m not in it, and it will remain ever so beautiful, ever so balanced, present and reverent and real and raw, working its way through cycles, entwining darkness, death and lessness with the fingers of unfettered streams of Light, Life and fullness. Such a notion leaves me a lightbody, as I chose to roam this Universe as I am, presently. A lightbody, bouncing like a blackbird, making its way through the alleyways of flowering delight and isness. There is no way  but to walk the walk of love, dance the dance of love, live the life of love, and gratefully, in deep thanks, die its death.

  I was born into brokenness, and in brokenness. My first memories of this world were very dark and I did not impart unconditional happiness upon my arrival. I was born into fear and in fear. My memory was clouded by the earthly responsibilities of childhood and adolescence. My soul and heart were forgotten, and I remained in the haze of transition for a very long time. But then the speck of light in me awakened as I grew, and I have reclaimed my light upon all the brokenness my life was built upon. I could even muster the words to say that I am afraid of myself, of the power of love in me— how it annihilates everything I’ve been through and binds all dimensions into one timeless, spaceless nothingness.  I could navigate my fear of myself, sometimes on my own, and sometimes I’d need your eyes. But will you ever be afraid of me, my dear one? Will you ever be afraid of my light that I cannot begin to contain? Will you ever be afraid of being received by me, in all your brokenness and hum

Last year, I wondered if I could write a letter to my future self— my ideal, most honest and authentic version of me who already is within me, but needs the most appreciated dimension of all: time, in order to bloom into being. Upon reading the letter I wrote to myself last year, I see how I’ve taken steps towards what I intended for in terms of growth. But as we grow, we find deeper parts of ourselves that yearn to shimmer into the light of day. Here is a letter to myself, and all the healed parts of me. My dearest Soraya, My dearest, softest flower in the fields of your dreams, Your eyes are melodiously sweet as you’re reading this. Your features have softened, something in your face has emulated a healing kind of grace that is ever-forgiving and acceptant. Your eyes are ever-bright, wide with exuberance and equanimity.  And what happened to your voice? How have you grown to embody strength and the unmatched power of truth through it? What once held me so deep in insecurity and doubt

Lately, I’ve been feeling a shift within myself. Sudden fierce rejections to certain aspects of day-to-day life, and quite oppositely, sudden and extreme embraces towards ideas I never imagined I’d accept.  Lately, I’ve noticed that I’m making decisions quite differently— it’s mostly intuitive, mostly based on sensations in my body that I cannot but trust, lest I’d really want to decide upon suffering with inexplicable waves of pain. It’s different, it’s not like me— or maybe it is the whole of me. Having always been a plant-eating enthusiast, I know that eating plants is a cardinal part of my day. Yet, it’s certainly different now. I cannot eat other foods as tranquilly as I used to. Hot meals— meat, fish, chicken, frozen vegetables and even packed pasta are foods I cannot get myself to ingest anymore. I’m not saying I like it— sometimes it is quite cumbersome. Yes, I receive a cacophony of inspiration and heavenly sensation with my usual meal of seasonal fruit and fresh vegetables, b

I will be honest here, crystalline honesty will sign my words. Some of what I might impart here may be seen as taboo or unspeakable, especially in my culture. However, when wounds are healed in love, there is nothing to fear anymore about expressing how it had evolved into the light. I dedicate this post to women and girls since I will be congratulating the evolution of a journey I have made towards healing my feminine health. If you are a man, you may not receive many benefits from reading, perhaps only educational. I will speak it up anyway so that I seal my learning and share what has been with clarity. I will be sharing how I’ve reclaimed my feminine health back throughout the years and how it was almost heart-shattering at times, and too, extremely empowering. I will be discussing the dangers of modern medicine on feminine health and how it ought to be balanced by an intuitive knowing that we all behold in regards to what truly heals us. In brief, when I was sixteen, I lost my men

Just like we have envisioned, we spend most of our time sharing love to others. Some days, it means we need to experience wholeness in wonder and contemplation while in others, it’s a season to give selflessly— by simply being. There is a miracle that unfolds when souls come together in love. It simply transforms the whole world. Tonight, we have decided to share our hearts with a song or two. We’ve set up a humble place for the ones we know to gather around and experience an intimacy so whole. Candlelights flicker, pouring something so amber and sacred into the darkness of the evening. I’ve always been insecure about singing, and I still am. A lifetime with you will keep me healing until I’m not afraid anymore. There is something about how a flame imparts my beingness and I lose control of presentation, being at the precipice of failure at any moment. You hold my hand through it, and tell me to try again with a smile. You know I might once find my voice. With your guitar on your lap,

There lived by the sea a gentle soul who was a miller. He and his wife served together to grind the grain for the people of their town. And it came to pass that in all the land there were no communities where so much happiness reigned as there. Their countrymen marveled and wondered, for they recognized that something unusual must have happened to make the members of this community so singularly wise and happy. And although the townsfolk themselves were born, grew up, matured to adulthood and passed from the screen of life within the community, never in all of their living were they able to understand the mystery. Tonight I shall draw aside the curtain and tell you what made the people of this community so happy and prosperous, so joyous and wise: It was the service of the miller and his wife and the love which they put into the flour. For this love was carried home in sacks of flour on the backs of those who patronized their mill and was then baked into their bread. At every meal the

It feels like we have always been doing this dear. this togetherness, it lasted eons of successive lifetimes. It lasted more than the familiarity of it in the intimate peaks of having you by my side. It feels like you’ve always been here, beside me. In this room, in this garden, in the sun, under the sky and below the clouds. You’ve always been here, gardening dreams and playing soft melodies. Listening at times but mostly speaking, I’ve always seen you. What comforts me is that there is another timeless dimension to this. The sun you see in me has risen in you now, and I’m as subtle as the softest moonglow, love. It’s warmer here, my heart simply just illuminates. We’ve been mirrored all along, back to loving ourselves. Perhaps I’ve dreaded hiding in the mystery of my existence till I saw the graceful gentleness you embody. Now I morph into oneness through you and shed my fears as this heavenly light falls into the night. It’s so whole healing here,  always here.

I’m free, and that is why I seem so lost. There is nothing more bewildering than a heart that is not confined to a certain landscape and can keep its merging and entwinement with heavenly interruptions. My emotional landscape is so fragile, and at times I despise it. I can withstand so much but there are certain subtleties that seem to enrage a wildfire in my chest. And I heave out the smoke of it being utterly painful to bear— the beads of sadness in my eyes, the colour of it, the fragrance of my aura. It murders me— love. In an attempt to be freer to love, one must break the shackles of all enslavements. When it is I, enslaved to the earthly, and I who must be submissive to surrender, is torn apart in between. I honestly choose not to be human most of the time. I see myself in all creatures; wildflowers, willows and blackbirds. But not in the I who is me when enslaved. Forgive me if it’s ever too much. My heart is akin to the brightest star, it needs the truth to burn.

How tender yet wildly lonely it is to feel so estranged in this world. When it’s the bus ride home and all at once, some certain worldly affairs seem so uncertainly meaningful when unrooted in God’s loving grounds. I often look back at my day and find I’ve been to meaningless terrains that have wasted my energy on the inessential. I go home starved for God’s guidance and a listening heart that would understand of the perils of humanhood. I do not want but to cling to what truly serves my soul. Then I miss you, for just a look in your ever-present gentle eyes and ease floods me. A softness that cleanses all the panicky, turbulent parts. How much I’d have to wait missing you, and how much sacredness is required for it to feel utterly timeless.

How is it possible that I miss you so much, that you’re so far away when all I need is but your embrace in the darkness of brokenness? My tears stream this moment as I paint the unfettered streams of love I have for you. I’m ever so broken when I try to shine without you by my side. The littlest attempts to receive glory make me want to die. And why is it that I do not want to go further without you? It is a relief to remain so small if you’re not here, with those reverent eyes of yours, seeing me to wholeness and selflessness. Nothing makes sense if I’m not on this mountain with you. I break apart this morning and stay silent, knowing that eventually, I need to come back to your heart. You’re not far. You never are. You’re planted in my soul, like a sun. It has to be this, or nothing at all. - you never really ever leave -

  How can my heart not break with a warmth such as this, exemplary, beautiful and ever so welcoming. How can I not but lay on this earth and spread my arms while I am coated and soaked in golden, buttery waves of delight! I close my eyes so many times. By that I mean, I close my eyes that see the truest beauty of the world. Like how I told the children today how there is utter in compassion in a fly surrendering it’s life to the treachery of the Venus flytrap. Often, and most when I am at ease, I forget about what is never enough. It is enough in the sunshine, eyes closed, the window of death open wide. This week was rather exhaustive in a sense that made me arrive at the gateways of brokenness. Brokenness that is arrived at when you don’t melt in beauty enough, when the magnificence of the world is a burden rather than a blessing— how far away I was from flawlessness, rather the lens of flawlessness that we ought to put on gazing at our imperfections. There were times when I felt I wa