The Isra’ and Mi’raj did not happen when the world was applauding the Prophet ï·º. It happened during the "Year of Sadness." It was God’s response to a heart worn down by loss, to a soul that felt the world slowly closing in. We are often so obsessed with "leveling up" in this crowded, material race. But the Buraq—that small, humble creature—teaches us a different lesson. To truly rise, you have to travel light. You have to let go of what keeps you tied down. Perhaps we fail to move forward simply because we are too attached to the noise of the earth.
When the Prophet ï·º led the prayer at Baitul Maqdis, it wasn’t about authority. It was about connection. It was a moment where history held its breath, showing us that we are part of a long, unbroken chain of light. Gathering in the dust of the earth before ascending to the stars reminds us that our journey isn't about escaping our past, but about carrying its truth into the heavens.
But the part that truly stays with me isn't the ascent. It’s the return. After reaching a proximity to the Divine that words cannot touch, he chose to come back. He came back to the friction, the mess, and the cruelty of this world. He did it out of pure mercy. And he brought back Salah—not as a heavy obligation, but as a daily escape. A place where you can finally turn the world’s volume down. Every time we step onto the mat, we are reenacting that celestial journey. It’s our chance to drop the heavy things and let the heart breathe again.
In the end, this journey isn't about leaving reality behind. It’s about bringing the perspective of the sky back down to the pavement. It’s realizing that while we walk on this earth, we do not belong to it. We have the capacity to survive our own years of sadness every time we pray and remember that the horizon is not the end. We are just travelers in a temporary skin, and we have been given a map so we never forget how to rise.
A distilled reflection from Shaykh Abdal Hakim Murad’s session last night.
2019 and everyone is holding a plastic cup. Brown sugar boba, Thai tea, or those iced coffee cups with the messy palm sugar at the bottom. The matcha lattes I adore? Not for me anymore.
I’m just here with my mineral water. Again.
It’s been a couple of years since I stopped. No more cappuccinos or lattes. Basically, anything with coffee, tea, or milk is off-limits now. I miss the ritual more than the caffeine, I think. But I remember 2017 too well. The panic, the ER, the realization that it was GERD all along.. and that my chest was on fire. I'm not ready to die for a drink just yet.
So I sit in these "aesthetic" cafes and I just watch. I smell the beans from across the room, it hits me how much I miss it.. and I keep my distance. It’s a bit lonely, being the only one not actually drinking the menu. I’m just the person in the corner, nursing a bottle of water and a plain croissant. Maybe a piece of dry toast if I'm lucky.
Maybe later. Maybe when I’m finally, fully okay, I’ll take one sip. Just one tiny, stupid sip to remember what it feels like to be normal.
But for now, I’m just staying safe. That’s all.
I read Kent Haruf’s last novel late in 2017. It didn’t feel like a story meant to be finished quickly. The pages moved quietly, like someone choosing their words because they knew there wouldn’t be time to take them back. Haruf died shortly after finishing the book. I watched the Netflix adaptation later. Ritesh Batra kept the film close to the plot, but seeing it on screen changes the perspective. In the book, the loneliness is something you just read about. In the film, you have to sit there and watch it happen in real-time. It’s a lot less private.
People might call this a romance because of the trailer, but it isn't. It’s just Addie and Louis being sick of the silence in their own houses. She asks him to sleep over just to talk. "It’s not about sex, it’s about getting through the night." That's the entire deal. Loneliness isn’t something you outgrow. You learn to keep it to yourself.
Haruf’s prose is famously spare. There are no quotation marks, no excess explanation. The book moves like a single, unbroken thought. The film tries to honor that restraint by slowing everything down. Jane Fonda and Robert Redford aren't trying to look younger or act nostalgic. They look tired, like people who are done pretending. Most of the film is just them sitting in the dark, talking about their dead spouses, and the children they failed in ways that still hurt. In the book, these conversations feel almost unbearable. In the film, they feel like two people trying to stay warm, without the promise of comfort.
The town of Holt is where the difference between page and screen becomes clear. In the novel, Holt feels like a cage. You can sense the neighbors watching, measuring, waiting. It isn’t cruelty that defines the town, but regulation. Everyone is making sure loneliness is performed correctly. The film softens this pressure. Holt looks almost too beautiful, with its open landscapes and warm, golden lighting. It makes their choice feel like a personal habit rather than something the whole town is judging. Most of the friction in the film comes from family dynamics anyway. It’s more about the kids and grandkids than the town itself.
If Addie and Louis are about finding some peace at night, her son Gene is the harsh reality that hits the next morning. He brings the outside world with him. In the book, Gene is aggressive. He’s loud, manipulative, and a direct threat to the room. The film softens him into a lingering shadow. He just stares, but the pressure remains. The book makes you want to hit something, but the film drains you. It’s family guilt. You can’t really explain it, and you definitely can’t get away from it.
The trailer looks like a story about companionship, but it’s actually much colder. There’s no void being filled here. Only two people sitting in their own emptiness, side by side, finding that the dark is slightly less terrifying when you aren't alone. This story doesn't care about "the one" or big sparks. Real intimacy starts when you finally admit you're lonely. The rest can wait.
Batra and cinematographer John Toll don't need much to show this world. The camera stays still, observing Addie and Louis from a distance like a neighbor watching through a window. It makes their intimacy feel fragile, almost ordinary. The lighting tells the whole story; the cold blue of their lonely evenings slowly shifting into the warm amber of a shared bedside lamp. The warm light from the lamp isn't there to be romantic. It’s there so they aren't sitting in the dark. With nothing to drown it out, every sound comes through. The sheets, the bed creaking, and their voices. The clock keeps ticking in the background as a way of saying that this isn’t going to last.
The ending isn't a warm hug. It simply stops where it has to. Both versions show that liking someone doesn’t undo a life already lived. The book is rough and cold. The film is softer, but the ending doesn’t change. Love doesn’t win here. It runs into family obligations, into age, into habits that can’t be rearranged this late. It’s a familiar kind of sadness. Not dramatic. Just quiet. They don’t stop because they want to. They stop because there’s nowhere left to push.
“Life's greatest gift is the freedom it leaves you to step out of it whenever you choose.”
– Andrè Breton (Anthology of Black Humor)
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