The first word after the Basmala
is not there by chance:
“Alhamdu…”
In the beginning there is praise.
The servant thinks he is the one who praises,
but the One who praises is He,
the One praised is He,
and the praise is from Him.
And the servant…
only a shadow caught in between.
What makes the shadow grow is not the light, but the wall.
The pot
bears the potter’s fingerprints,
but cannot know his intent.
The trace is there, the purpose is hidden.
The letter
is born from the tip of the pen,
but cannot read the writer’s heart.
Existence appears, yet cannot encompass the Essence.
The One who encompasses cannot be encompassed.
What in the Sharia we take for gratitude,
what in the Tariqa we take for praise,
in the Haqiqa becomes helplessness.
For the made
cannot praise its Maker as is due.
The pot tells of the potter only as much
as a pot can.
The self is unseen, and because it is unseen
it veils everything. This is the veil.
Whatever station the tongue has tasted, that taste
becomes destiny.
The highest praise
is not the rising of the praise,
but the lessening of the one who praises.
The muezzin recites,
the imam repeats.
From creation to the Real,
from the Real to creation.
Every atom gives praise.
The stone, the bird, the breath.
For there is nothing
that does not glorify Him with praise.
Man… carries the trust.
Whoever praised from whatever station
gathers beneath that banner.
Praise
is greater than gratitude.
Deeper than acclaim.
Closer to silence.
And the highest praise
is the servant’s nothingness.
For praise
is not a word…
it is a return.
The moment the tongue falls silent, the self dissolves,
and praise returns to its Owner.
In the return, what if no one remains?
mim