February was a month of fast-paced days, hours that felt like minutes, and nights that ended too soon. I became used to rapid, short breaths, the constant whisper of stress, and a schedule that felt like it would break me.
March, the month of Ramadan, found me like a beautiful pause, a deep breath, a cool breeze wiping the sweat from my brow.
I entered the month with a sigh of relief. My gratitude to Allah overflowed like the tears on my face as I stepped into this blessed month to worship, worship, worship. As Muslims, we have our prescribed forms of worship: Our Salat, charity, fasting, and so on. This Ramadan, I challenged myself to find more ways in which I could turn mundane daily tasks into acts of worship. I remembered listening to a talk by Sheikh Ali Hammuda, in which he said: “The worship of absent-minded people is are habits. The habits of the present-minded people are worship.” (Ali Hummada: Married Ever After).
How could I turn mundane tasks into worship? How could I reframe certain acts to be for the sake of Allah and give them an elevated meaning?
A catalyst for this shift, which shaped my entire Ramadan and year thus far, was found in my time spent in nature. Solitude has always been my escape from outer stressors to inner peace.
In Ramadan, I increased the time spent alone in nature. My walks, for one, which had always been silent conversations with Allah, became more grounded and more intentional. I would gather my prayer mat, make my wudu, and head towards my local trail for Asr–a habit I formed several Ramadans back. I paired each step of that walk with a name of Allah, falling into the rhythm of Al Wali (step), Al-Hadi (step), Al Fattah (step), and Ar Razzaq (step). With each step and name, I would either picture a desire of mine in relation to that quality of Allah or an image of how that quality shows up in my daily life. An Noor paired with the image of the divine light I’ve seen in my dreams. As Salam paired with the stillness I find at the river. Ar Rasheed paired with the deep desire for guidance and mentorship from The One who shows me my way.
Silent prayers and the movement of my body on those short walks became a habit that I would run to each day. These daily moments have become so meaningful and such a powerful way to draw me closer to Allah that I begun to add them into my drives and daily household chores. Dhikr becomes a rhythm that flows with any hands-on task, and replaces my intrusive, anxious thoughts, which had become the theme of February. It cleanses my mind and creates a harmony I didn’t know was missing.
On those walks–a habit I built into this month within the first week–I ponder on Allah’s creations. Nature has always been my masjid. It’s where I see Allah the clearest and feel His beautiful presence.
There’s a spot at my nearby trail, in which golden sunlight seeps through maple and oak trees, casting the soft forest floor in a warm glow. Even during the cold, blustery days of March, the illusion of sunny warmth settled my bones and softened my muscles. When amongst the birds and trees, I found Allah’s signs everywhere. I would see Him in the solidness and stability of towering trees, His gentleness in budding grasses, and His mightiness in the heavy clouds filled with rain. I could hear His voice in the bold wind, which still held the remnants of unforgiving winter.
As I pressed my forehead to the cool earth in sujood, I ceased to exist as me, and simply became one of Allah’s creations, tiny in the midst of the forest, which housed life that existed long before me, and would exist far after me.
I remember sitting by the tree one day during this month, feeling its sturdy trunk behind my back, propping me up as my fasting stomach grumbled. The world around me felt quiet and significant all at once. My problems–vast just a month ago–seemed to shrink as I gazed up at its mighty branches. Tiny buds peppered the end of branches, hinting at Spring. Trees towered all around me, and life hummed from their tops as hundreds of birds laughed, sang, and danced about. The sky, endless and blue, went on and on and on.
I felt small. Not insignificant or worthless as I once used to, but just…small.
Surprisingly, I liked this feeling. I liked feeling like I was just a small part—a tiny part—of Allah’s massive plan.
During the early part of the year, when my focus was on growing my businesses, figuring out my priorities, and creating new projects, I fell deep into my bubble of ‘me, me, me.’ As a health coach who studied in the West, I am all too familiar with the individualistic nature of Western psychology. I’m not saying it’s all bad–there is undoubtedly a ton of good to be found within modes of therapy and coaching, but there is an increased emphasis on the ‘self’. Islam–Islamic coaching and therapy specifically, finds the balance between caring for the self and serving Allah.
I once heard a powerful talk by Ustadh Mohammed Issac, who is one among a few beginning to call out the cracks in secular psychology. In his lectures, he discusses the difference between feeding your Nafs versus feeding your heart and soul. This is what I finally recognized, that day in the trail, leaning against the friendly Oak tree.
Life is not about me. It is about the plan Allah has for me, which includes how I serve others, how I work within our Ummah, and how I worship Allah.
The art I create for work became art I create first for Allah. The meals I cook for my family have become an act of service for Allah rather than a stressful act. Driving a friend to Iftar became a way for me to help her for the sake of Allah, rather than time taken from my day. A phone call with family became a way to strengthen family ties–an act loved by Allah, rather than time taken away from work.
The perspective nature gave me reframed the way I began to look at these small tasks and moments. They became forms of Ibadah, opportunities for worship, and ways to please the One who created me.
There is always a balance to be found between serving those around us for Allah and taking care of ourselves so that we don’t burn out. But this Ramadan taught me that it is actually the act of being in service to Allah that fills my cup. The understanding that I am a small cog in Allah’s larger, infinite plan has decreased my stressors & and anxieties, and increased my trust in Allah to guide me through this life. My faith in His plan and my role in it allows me to treat each mundane daily task as an additional act of worship, as an opportunity to serve Allah with everything that I do.
As Sheikh Ali Hammuda said, “The worship of absent-minded people are habits. The habits of the present-minded people are worship.”
We all worship something. It is up to us to decide if we allow ourselves to fall into the trap of worshipping our Nafs and this Duniya, or if we choose to worship the One Who Created us, the One Whom We Shall All Return To.
Myra Farooq, written for The Daybreak Dispatch