Month: June 2019

Letter #18: Fragments

The Faith Letters

Dear Part of Me That Needs to Hear This,

What a journey it’s been. What a time you live in. What courage it takes to be awake in a world with an abundance of injustice.

When something is alive, it moves. That’s the journey of your faith. 

Your faith’s been on quite the journey these past few years. And just when you thought it was time to lay down your luggage and rest in community, your naive optimism encountered the mirage. 

You can shed your anger at the blind fear masquerading as enlightenment. The shallow spirituality of those who use God as medicine, applied carelessly, selfishly, proudly. They can congratulate themselves for having the courage to call on God at all. 

God. God, it sucks how they’ve corrupted His name. It’s still hard to use “God” or affiliate with religion because of the centuries of holiness weaponized by conquerors and power-hungry men. And the modern ignorance being safeguarded by false religion. 

God is the Truth. The Real. The One with many names. 

Every time I am tempted to trust another human as my guide, I am reminded of the Guide. 

God is greater. 

When you find yourself tired, remember your purpose. You are here to meet the Truth. To love. To leave behind something beautiful. 

And remember that you’re not the only one who has been hurt by deceit and ignorance. That is the story of humanity, after all. That’s the fall from paradise. 

And remember that you, too, have the capacity to hurt if you’re not careful. And perhaps even when you’re careful. Self-confrontation and humility will keep your integrity intact. 

The work you do every day to find Truth in the complexity of this modern world is no small feat. Some days it will exhaust you. Some days you will be overwhelmed. Yet this is your calling. And what an honor it is to have the hunger and patience to be an archaeologist of the truths we’ve been told.

Yours,

Aaliah 

Love To the Point of Tears

On nights like this, my tears feel so near. Like they’re wanting to come out for a breath of fresh air but not waiting for my permission. It’s not sadness. Or despair. These tears just want a chance to see the world. To leave my body and mix with infinity of atoms that surround me.

The first time, tears left at the sound of Anne Lamott’s voice on my car stereo, speaking directly to my soul.

The second time, it was finding a bag of cheese curls in my room when I returned home after being gone for just two days.

The third time was when my dad showed me an old family photo of his mom, dad, and three older siblings –the thought of my dad losing the three most beloved family members he had brought many tears out.

The fourth time was hearing that a family friend lost her mother in Egypt –she was visiting there just a couple of months ago, and her mother died having met her two grandsons.

And the fifth, was watching my mother stir a pot of milk on the stove, a sight that overwhelmed me in its preciousness.

“Live to the point of tears,” Albert Camus said. Words I cherish, and that I’m often reminded of when I visit my friend Anna’s Instagram. Live to the point of tears, yes. And also love to the point of tears, because those tears desperately want to escape you.