For some time, I’ve aspired to keep a Ramadan journal. To capture my meditations during the month. Having read Kazim Ali’s Fasting for Ramadan: Notes from a Spiritual Place, having returned to it for many year during this time, this might be place and time for me to start jotting down my musings.
I searched for the book in my apartment for a solid forty-three minutes before sitting down to type. I’m sure I’ll notice it somewhere in the midst of folding laundry or prepping my work bag. The books in this apartment seem to have lives of their own. We pull them out (for a plethora of reasons). Leave them on a surface somewhere. In an effort to be tidy, we (and I mean me, S tends to be intentional about returning books to their metaphorical addresses) slip them back into open slots, irregardless of if there are actual return points for them.
I ramble.
This time of the year is quiet and meditative. It feels especially for the narrators and speakers of lyric. An entire month celebrating when the Quran was revealed to the Prophet. A month in commemoration of prose–oration–transcription–tawwakul–recitation–madrasas–universities–philosophy–law of affirmation–liberal arts–feminism–lunar charts–poetry readings–enjambment on the fifth edit of a poem–here is to the first night.
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