“No More Girls”: How Afghan Daughters Are Being Erased from Public Life

There comes a moment in love when the center of gravity shifts—quietly, irrevocably. When the heart no longer seeks, no longer bargains, no longer questions its devotion. A moment when the beloved’s soft gaze becomes a threshold to another world, and something inside you whispers: I can never return to who I was before this.

A whisper from the 13th century walks beside us still. In this woven reflection—part story, part remembrance, part transmission—I invite you into the quiet country within, where the seer, the seen, and the very seeing dissolve into a single Light. Journey with me to Shiraz, to mirror-worked dawns, to the threshold where the heart hears itself again.

Rooted in the quiet morning of Northern California, my writing weaves together the natural world, mysticism, meditationand everyday wonder.

For those who pray in many tongues—or in holy silence—this meditation gathers the temple bell, the call to prayer, the rosary’s hush, and the breath that forms Om into one warm cup of morning presence. Arrive as you are; read slowly, and pause where your breath naturally pauses.

Step into the sacred seam where dreams and reality intertwine. This blog explores the mystical practice of barzakh—inviting you to pause, imagine, and discover the Divine presence shimmering in every ordinary breath. Where spirit and matter meet, you’ll find your heart’s quiet doorway to wonder.

Part II A Reflection with Ibn Arabi and Meister Eckhart By Anosha Zereh Why I’m Writing This? Sometimes my friends tell me that when they read mystical writings—especially those of Ibn Arabi or Meister Eckhart—they get lost.“It’s beautiful,” they say, “but what does it mean? How can anyone understand both Christianity and Islam at once?” Maybe that’s exactly where this reflection began: in the space  between —between languages, between traditions, between hearts trying to spe

For countless years, my restless lower self wandered the timeless corridors of longing—carrying the perennial ache: Why was this body called into being? What unseen dream, what secret, rests quietly within my skin? I loved God as a mighty Creator—distant, veiled, always beyond the highest peaks of my prayers. My longing stretched to fill an endless sky; each plea and poem became an arrow sent out toward a beloved, unreachable sun. There were nights when my soul, exhausted and