The Illusion Of Control
When I wake up the cat follows me downstairs and I let the dog in and they both get into some form of chaos while I’m trying to pray. If I’m lucky, no one’s destroyed the tissue boxes or taken a sneaky shit. On a good day, they just chase each other around and under me while I’m trying to prostrate. One should be so blessed, really. It’s a curse to take yourself seriously.
Then I see the old man, 94-years old now, with the great-grandchildren crawling all over him. They have no idea ‘who’ he is at all, and don’t care. He’s had a long and well-respected career, but it ends like this, surrounded by rodents demanding cheese. In old age the greatest reward is not reputation among your (disappearing) peers, but the mere presence of the next generation, who will love you even if you have only a tin of biscuits and a kind heart left to your name. I should be so lucky, some day, inshallah.
I think then, of our assassinated uncle, honestly the best uncle, and how he won’t see his own grandchildren. How is that fair? He did so much good for so many people, and — in the true spirit of giving — not mindlessly but mindfully. He could see when people were in need and he helped them without being asked, and generously, like he was giving to himself. I think then of the Quran, the Bible, or any…
