I’ve heard people say that Arabic calligraphy is about the space between the letters, and its spiritual vocal art about the silence between the phrases. Could meaning be found in the absence of things, rather than in their presence? This was a thought I pondered upon during this first week of Ramadan. It feels like the first Ramadan to me. For the first time it’s not merely a struggle against hunger or thirst, but a conscious retreat to less of things, towards an enjoyment of the emptiness.
In the place we live in, I find it very easy to get a little lost in the culture of reaching outwards for happiness. To reach out for something that would make me feel good, alive or simply existing. It could be anything that could mirror my presence, anything that could be enjoyed, anything that could occupy my mind. Eating a delicious croissant, rechecking my mail, watching videos on YouTube, reading articles, listening to just another song. It’s a luxury to have access to all those beautiful sources. Yet at the end of the day I often find myself with very little empty time left to reconnect to what is real and to contemplate.
I’ve been missing the silence and the empty spaces. I remember how I felt it so clearly when I was in Morocco meditating on the roof at sunset, or during the spiritual Islamic ceremonies with the great masters of Quran recitation and devotional songs, or when I was with my grandfather sailing at sea at night.
