The soaring call

As I sit here, in this land dotted with mosques, every few hours, I hear the muezzin call. It begins low at first and then like an ocean swell that rises from somewhere deep, it quickly gains momentum and rises, a wall of sound fuelled by devotion, embodied with worship, and driven by longing.

And then a pause, dramatic in its abruptness, as if the wave was stopping to rally its forces. And then the call rising again, meandering through the pathways of the heart, wiping them clear of vestiges of doubt, filling them with love. Sweeping me along, climbing higher and higher, like as if it wanted to bridge the gap between earth and heaven, to dissolve the veil that seperates the two.

The final crescendo, knocking on those golden gates where the Spirit dwells, and then they open, those diaphanous doors, transporting me for some glorious moments into the presence of everything luminous, awe-inspiring, blessed.

Leaving me deeply and joyously grateful.