persimmons rain

I am the main provider for my three cats here on campus: Pengo, Peanut, and Poppy. However, Peanut and Poppy don’t live with me. They come for food, nothing more. Sometimes they linger, sometimes they vanish as quickly as they arrived. They don't come when called, and they owe me nothing. Still, I feed them. Not because I expect their loyalty, but because I understand the quiet deal we’ve made. They come hungry. I have food. That's enough.

Pengo is different. He lives with me, mostly at night. During the day, he disappears into the campus. I imagine he has a whole secret life out there: shadowing students, sleeping under trees, finding other hands to scratch behind his ears. But he returns. Every evening, as the sky folds into itself, he comes home, settles next to me, and breathes into the silence of the room like he belongs.

Doris Lessing wrote that you can’t own a cat, you can only be partners. I believe that. Cats are creatures of freedom. They choose. And when they choose you, even briefly, it feels like a kind of grace.

Sometimes I think their way of loving is cleaner than ours. Not warmer, necessarily, but cleaner. They don’t pretend. They don’t make promises they can’t keep. They show up when they want to, and if they come back, it’s because they want to. Not because they’re supposed to.

And that makes me wonder why we expect human love to be something else. Something bigger, or purer, or more endless.

We’re told real love should be unconditional. But that’s not how we’re built. We’re not gods. We get tired. We want to be held in return. We want to be understood, not just endured. That’s not weakness. That’s just what it means to be human.

I used to think I had to love perfectly, to give without ever expecting. But now I think: maybe all we need is fairness. Show up when you can. Be kind. Don’t hurt what trusts you. Mean what you offer. Don’t take more than you give.

Peanut and Poppy still come and go. Pengo still disappears every morning and curls beside me every night. None of them are mine. But they choose me, again and again. And somehow, that feels great enough.

"Honestly, I still think about you too."

For a moment, I let myself believe those words meant something solid, something I could rest on. But the night kept moving, slow and restless, and the comfort I expected began to fade. The sentence echoed, then softened, until it felt lighter than it had any right to be. In that stretch of silence, I nearly asked what lingered at the edge of my thoughts: "Do you miss me too?"

He went on before I could.

"But I'm too desentized to heartbreaks. And you left me."

Ya Allah, there was a time when I came to You carrying a heart that felt unable to move beyond the past. I told You I could not forget him, and I feared that opening my life to anything new would be a form of betrayal. I treated my memories as if they were obligations, as if remaining attached to what had already ended was a sign of faithfulness rather than a sign of my own hesitation.

But Ya Allah, You know what is hidden within me better than I know myself. You know how often I have replayed what is gone, how easily my mind has mistaken familiarity for destiny. Today I ask You for something different. Grant me ridha, a sincere contentment with who I am now and with the life You are unfolding for me. Calm the restlessness that comes from comparing my present to my past.

Ya Allah, teach my heart to understand that remembering is not the same as being bound. Allow me to honor what I have experienced without allowing it to limit what I may yet become. Remove the guilt I feel when I imagine a future that does not look like my past. If new paths, new people, or new possibilities are written for me, let me meet them without fear and without the weight of unnecessary regret.

And Ya Allah, if I ever stand before choices that confuse me or pull me in different directions, grant me clarity and hikmah. Protect me from decisions driven by loneliness, fear, or attachment to what is no longer meant for me. Give me the strength to choose what brings me closer to peace, stability, and sincerity. Give me the courage to choose in a way that preserves my dignity and well-being.

Above all, Ya Allah, help me trust Your wisdom over my emotions, Your decree over my doubts, and Your plans over my attachments. Let my heart rest in the knowledge that nothing meant for me will miss me, and nothing that misses me was ever truly mine.

I heard the ring you never made

vibrating in the pocket of my sleep.

You think I took the exit,

but I’ve been driving in circles around the block of your memory

for two hundred and ninety-nine days.

Is it warm on your shirt?

That’s not my breath.

That’s the heat of the fire I started just to see

if you’d move out of the smoke.

I changed your name, too.

In my phone, you are "Do Not Sink,"

yet I find myself underwater every time

I pass our favorite street.

You ask if I am okay in your dreams,

but in mine, you are a statue

cold, perfect, and unmovable.

We ruined more than sixteen months;

we ruined the way I look at the moon,

the way I hear the word "forever"

without tasting a lie.

You celebrate my presence underneath you,

but I am carrying the weight of you

on my back.

We aren't friends,

and we aren't strangers.

We are a map with no destination,

staring at the ghosts of children

who would have had my eyes and your temper.

Don’t wait for the ring.

I’m staring at the screen

until it goes black

waiting for you to be the one

It’s been 299 days

since you said, "I’m leaving for good."

Your breath still feels warm on my T-shirt.

How come?

Low and down, I’ve been wrecked,

hugging your thorns between my legs.

And I’ve enjoyed it up until now,

because I was confusing pain with pleasure.

I still have your number

calling you mine, changing your name

but not once did it ring

and ask if I’m doing fine.

Should I be sad?

Long and grown, my sigh,

every time I spoke to you in my dream.

"Are you OK?" I said,

wondering if I should’ve addressed that question to myself.

Babe, what are we now?

We’re not even friends,

but too comfortable at times

to say we’re strangers.

We alienated the goals

we once set

for kids we never had.

Sorry for ruining our 16 months;

we’d never make it to the second anniversary.

But I’ll still celebrate

Yesterday, for the first time since I stopped my medication, my GAD was triggered. It felt random. I didn’t even know why, but it lasted for hours. It was hard. Overwhelmingly hard. I kept asking myself: Why? I’ve been so happy for the past month; truly the happiest I’ve been in two years. So, what was this?

I tried to unravel my thoughts. I was terrified of not knowing the answer. I spiraled: What if my anxiety disorder is back, stronger than before? What if my healing was only temporary? What if my nervous system has just been keeping score, waiting for the right moment to strike?

Then, it all clicked. I found the trigger.

For about two weeks, I’ve been surrounded by students who come from immense privilege. I don't want to be superficial by just calling them "spoiled," because we never truly know what someone else is going through. But being with them, I found a piece of myself that I’d lost. A part of me I never fully nurtured when I was younger.

I saw my younger self: the girl who needed to be held, told she was doing okay, and supported. The girl who needed more hugs and encouragement. That part of me is now watching these children thrive in ways I wasn't allowed to.

I realized my younger self was aching for that same treatment. Not the struggles she fought through, but the ease they have. I found myself wondering: "If I had been that lucky, would I have bloomed early?"

I’m glad I could identify this pain. I’m glad I can finally understand my younger self a little better.

I found myself in another city, again. This time for at least six months. It’s been almost three weeks now, and every time I wake up, I ask myself, "Are we here yet?"

My friends tell me how random my life is. I am a slow-burn nomad. I take my time wherever I stay; I take time to understand the parts of myself that come out in different places.

One time, it was confidence. Another time, it was patience. Last time, it was anger and immediate decisions. Every time, I asked myself, "Will we be alright?"

The last seven weeks have been twisted in so many ways. I was confused about many things, frustrated by others, and disappointed too. It was a chaotic swirl, but at least I had to swim in the ocean a little too often, which I’m eternally grateful for.

I learned one crucial thing from my most recent swim.

I was floating peacefully on my back, trying to enjoy the sun above me and the water under me—a moment of true calm amidst the internal storm—when the big wave came. It hit from behind, completely unseen, and shoved me, goggles and all, right to the shore. My nose was filled with water and my eyes stung.

It was shocking, uncomfortable, and a little painful in the moment. It was a perfect, messy metaphor for the last two months.

But as I stumbled to my feet, spitting out salt water, I remember looking at my friends and just laughing so hard.

The wave didn’t just upend me; it reset me. It knocked me out of my thoughtful, passive float and delivered me back to the shore, dizzy but fully alive. It taught me that while I can't always see the things coming that will fill my nose with water, those shocks often end in connection and a powerful, shared laugh.

Sometimes, the simplest acts bring the deepest joy: pouring fresh water for a thirsty cat, scattering a handful of kibble, or pausing to watch a soft purr curl into your day’s busy hours.

In moments like these, I often wonder “Does this tiny kindness count as charity, even when I do it simply because it makes me happy?”

From an Islamic perspective, the answer is gentle and reassuring: Yes and even more so when we remember Allah in our small mercies.

The daily ritual

Every day, I’m blessed to share my time and space with three feline companions

Poppy (a calico) is my early riser. She appears at my door around 5 a.m., so I leave the door slightly open at dawn’s edge to see her tiny silhouette waiting. There’s always a bowl of fresh water and some kibble ready for her. She’ll drop by again at noon and around 5 in the afternoon, like clockwork as if reminding me gently, “love me every morning.”

Peanut (an orange) is more unpredictable as he comes and goes as he pleases, often climbing in through an open window. He’s used to finding Pengo’s food waiting, and I make sure there’s always enough for both.

Pengo (my little cheetah) is my shadow most days since he lives with me, so he never has to ask. Still, I refill his bowl often, especially after Peanut helps himself. Occasionally , I treat all three to a bit of wet food, a small celebration of life’s simple joys.

Back in my hometown, another little soul, another Poppy (also a calico) waits for me, a quiet reminder that care is not bound by place.

A mercy loved by the Most Merciful

The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ taught us:

“In every living being there is a reward.” (Muslim)

So every time I set down a bowl, open a window, or refill a dish, I remember: mercy to Allah’s creatures is mercy to myself too. And when my heart aligns with kindness, my soul finds calm.

Intention: weaving worship into daily love

Islam teaches that niyyah (intention) turns daily routines into worship. The Prophet ﷺ said:

“Actions are but by intentions…” (Bukhari & Muslim)

Now and then, I whisper in my heart:

“O Allah, I feed them seeking Your pleasure, and I thank You for the happiness they bring me.”

It’s such a simple thought but it transforms a chore into a quiet act of worship, a soft bridge to His mercy.

A small dua for a merciful heart

When feeding my furry children, I learn to say:

“O Allah, I do this seeking Your noble face. Bless me with Your mercy and make me among the people of compassion.”

Whether you care for a cat, a dog, or a hungry bird, know this: kindness is never wasted. Mercy nourishes more than just bodies, it softens hearts and invites happiness to linger at your doorstep.

May we be among those who feed, protect, and love all living beings seeking Allah’s mercy and finding our own happiness along the way.

I felt a sudden rage yesterday. When I read all the archived messages from my conversations with him. It was apparent that I was fighting the relationship alone.

For so long, I told myself we were a team, that love was about patience, forgiving silence, giving without demanding too much in return. But scrolling through those words I once clung to, I saw so clearly how I had carried the weight for both of us, while he lingered somewhere far from the fire I kept tending.

At first, the anger startled me. I’m not someone who erupts easily. But yesterday, the fury rose from somewhere deep not just toward him, but toward the version of me who begged to be chosen over and over again.

I sat there trembling, then sent him an email: “Call me when you can.” He didn’t call, instead, a flurry of messages landed on my phone, asking if I was alright. I told him, plainly, that I’d gone back through our old messages and found clear proof that he too had once wanted marriage, a life together, dreams that he had whispered to me like promises.

His reply came as a blow I hadn’t braced for: “Yeah, but then I changed my mind. I’m allowed to change my mind.”

It was so casual, so indifferent. And in that instant, the anger twisted into a grief so vast it nearly split me open.

I typed back: “If you say so. May this be our last conversation. I am through with us.”

Then, with hands that didn’t shake anymore, I blocked his number.

That night, sleep felt like a door left ajar. I drifted in and out of uneasy dreams, some where I argued with him all over again, others where we were back together, laughing like nothing had broken. I woke up more than once, my heart pounding at ghosts I couldn’t quite hold onto or push away. By morning, my body felt heavy, as if it had been wrestling all night with the anger and sadness I carried out of that last conversation.

And yet, despite the fight I waged in my sleep, I woke with a clearer head. That’s why people say give it a night, and a night, and a night. Sometimes the quiet hours do for us what daylight cannot: they soften the sharp edges, they remind us that even storms eventually run out of rain.

Today, the rage has cooled into a quiet resolve. Maybe this is what people mean when they say healing is not a straight line: some days I forgive him, some days I curse him, some days I stand in front of the mirror and forgive myself.

I don’t know if I believe in closure. Maybe some wounds never truly close; they just stop bleeding. And in their place, I learn to stand beside myself fiercely, tenderly, without apology.

There is relief now in the honesty of my own company. There is power in the anger that reminded me what I deserve: to be met halfway, to be loved without having to plead for hands that never truly wanted to stay.

This past month in class, we’ve been traveling, not physically, but through screens, stories, and shared dreams.

London, with its double-decker buses and ancient bridges, came first. It was in our textbook, so naturally, we leaned in. But what began as a reading passage turned into something more: a journey. We watched videos of the London Underground, the bustling markets, the solemn guards at Buckingham Palace. My students laughed at British slang, tried mimicking accents, and asked curious questions about afternoon tea and rainy weather.

Then came Taiwan, my second home. I told them about the night markets, the smell of bubble tea, the kindness of strangers, and the MRT gliding quietly through Taipei. Taiwan felt closer, more intimate. The videos we watched weren't just travel vlogs; they were pieces of my life that I wanted to share. And they welcomed them, warmly.

One day, I showed them the railway maps of London and Taipei—so colorful, so complex, so overwhelming. Lines crisscrossed like tangled threads. My students squinted at the screen, following the maze of colors, before sighing in unison: "I think I'm going to get lost."

I laughed. “Oh, I got lost a lot in Taipei Main Station,” I admitted. “It took me around six months to finally be able to navigate the transportation system on my own.”

They looked surprised but also, relieved. Maybe getting lost wasn’t a failure. Maybe it was part of becoming brave.

What started as curiosity has quietly grown into belief. Not just mine but ours. Now we say it with a soft kind of certainty: One day, they’ll go. Maybe to London. Maybe to Taiwan. At least to these two.

Motivation is a quiet seed. You water it not just with lessons, but with images, hopes, and stories. With a glimpse of the world not as something distant, but something waiting.

My students may not have passports yet. But they have dreams that know their destinations.

And in this little classroom, that’s where it all begins.

I know we read and talk about dreams a lot. But I just woke up from a nap today, with a dream of catching a lot of fish. Some with no skin (which was honestly terrifying), some with no scales. I don’t even really fish in real life, but there I was, pulling strange, silent creatures from the water, one after another, with a feeling I can’t quite name.

And it made me wonder again. what is this dreamworld our minds keep slipping into?

Because as it turns out, your brain doesn’t just rest when you sleep. It creates.

Welcome to REM Sleep, the Dream Arena

During REM sleep, your body goes still (a kind little feature so you don’t act out your dreams), but your brain goes full theatre mode. Lights up, emotions on, logic... off.

Behind the scenes:

Your amygdala, the emotion processor, is buzzing.

Your prefrontal cortex, the logic gatekeeper, is snoozing.

So it all makes emotional sense, but not always logical sense. Like catching fish with no skin.

And the strangers in your dreams?

Ever wake up after seeing a face so clear, so detailed, and yet... you've never met them? Neuroscience suggests your brain isn’t inventing faces from scratch, it’s borrowing them. Someone you passed on a staircase three years ago. A face in a photo you barely glanced at. The brain hoards faces like a quiet collector, and dreams are where it lets them loose.

It mixes and matches like a subconscious stylist: “Hmm… today let’s give this fisherman the eyes of a neighbor you’ve forgotten and the hands of your third-grade teacher.”

So... why dream at all?

Good question. There’s no single answer yet, but there are a few leading theories:

Activation-synthesis theory says your brain is just responding to neural noise and your mind builds stories around it.

Threat-simulation theory believes dreams help us rehearse for danger, like emotional fire drills.

Memory consolidation suggests dreams help sort and store the day’s experiences filing thoughts like an odd little librarian.

But science aside, maybe dreams are postcards from deeper selves, fragments of memory, emotion, metaphor, and mystery. Some are comforting, some bizarre, and others (like fish with no skin) linger with unsettling poetry.

But what I keep thinking about even now, hours later is how that dream felt real. The cold weight of the fish, the eerie stillness, the questions it left behind. I don’t know what it means. Maybe nothing. Maybe something quietly symbolic, still curling in the corners of my mind.

Dreams don’t always speak in straight lines. They speak in textures. In symbols. In half-felt things we might not have the language for yet.

Dear Moon, I see you most when I feel least seen. You appear so close. Silver-lit, almost within reach. But my hands, no matter how high they stretch, return empty. Still, I speak to you. In quiet rooms. Through half-dreams. You never answer, but I pretend you do. If I tell you I miss you, will it disturb the tides?

There are kinds of love that never find a landing place, not because they’re weak or unfinished, but because they were always meant to float, to orbit. Like the moon.

Some people enter our lives not to stay, but to show us the vastness of what we can feel. We love them not because we expect them to be ours, but because in their presence or even just in their memory we discover a part of ourselves we wouldn’t have known otherwise.

It’s tempting to believe that love requires closeness. That it only counts if it’s reciprocated, returned, or made official. But there is a quieter truth: sometimes love is simply the act of keeping someone safe in your thoughts. Letting them live, even if not beside you. And trusting that the beauty of loving, even at a distance, is still complete in itself.

Have you ever noticed how certain times of the year affect your mood, even when nothing big is happening?

For me, early June always feels a bit strange. Not exactly sad, but a little heavy. Maybe it’s because it sits in the middle of the year, a quiet reminder that time is moving, whether we’re ready or not. The school year is ending for many people, holidays are coming up, and there's this pause that makes you stop and reflect. It’s like the world slows down for a moment, and you suddenly realize how fast everything has been going.

Some seasons bring a quiet kind of happiness. Like the start of December, when the air feels different even in a tropical climate. People begin to decorate, take time off, or plan trips. The streets get busier, but hearts feel softer. I often catch myself feeling hopeful, like something good is coming, even if I don’t know what it is.

Other seasons bring different moods. March, for example, often makes me restless. It’s not quite the beginning anymore, but not yet deep into the year. I start thinking about changes, new routines, career plans, unfinished goals. I tend to question everything: Am I doing enough? Should I be somewhere else? With someone else? It’s not always comfortable, but I’ve learned to recognize it as part of the rhythm.

Even weather can trigger feelings. A sudden afternoon rain can make me pause especially when I hear it while working alone. It reminds me of being a student, or of slow Sundays at home. On the other hand, a hot and dusty day sometimes makes me irritable for no real reason. It’s not just about temperature. It’s about how the world feels around me and inside me.

Certain scents, too, bring things up unexpectedly. The smell of sunblock reminds me of beach trips with friends. The scent of fried shallots takes me straight to my childhood kitchen. These small things that may get unnoticed by others can open up a whole emotional memory.

I think a lot of us go through this, even if we don’t always talk about it. We just say we’re tired or “in a weird mood.” But sometimes, it’s the season we’re responding to. A certain month, a change in light, a pattern we’ve experienced before. It’s familiar in a way that doesn’t always make sense, but it’s real.

I’ve started paying more attention to these seasonal shifts in myself. I try not to overthink them, but I don’t ignore them either. It’s okay to feel a little off sometimes. We don’t need to have a big reason. Maybe we just need to be gentle with ourselves and notice.

So if you’ve been feeling different lately, more quiet, more nostalgic, more hopeful, or more easily annoyed, maybe it’s not random. Maybe it’s just the season saying something to you in its own way.

No one prepares you for the wait time.

We’re told to be patient, but not what to do in the quiet spaces in between the pauses after goodbye, the stretch between sending and receiving, the long inhale between hope and reality. They don’t tell you that the wait time is not empty. It’s thick. It breathes. It asks things of you.

Sometimes it’s waiting for a message that doesn’t come, refreshing the screen as if the act itself could summon presence. Sometimes it’s the wait between questions and answers, where connection hovers but hasn’t landed yet. Other times, it’s sitting beside someone you love, both of you silent, not because you have nothing to say but because the moment is swelling with the weight of what cannot be spoken yet.

Waiting reveals us.

It shows how we handle not-knowing. Whether we grasp or release. Whether we distract ourselves, or stay and feel it all. From the doubt, the ache, the fragile wish that maybe, just maybe, it’ll turn out okay.

Psychologist Adam Grant, in his book Think Again, points out that these pauses of moments of silence and waiting are not just empty gaps. They are vital spaces where deeper understanding and empathy can grow. When we pause in conversation instead of rushing to respond, we create room for others to think, reflect, and share more honestly. The wait time becomes a bridge, not a barrier.

We wait in rooms, on sidewalks, in cars, in our thoughts. We wait in conversations that pause mid-air. We wait in relationships, in grief, in healing. We wait for the right words to come, for someone to change, for our own hearts to understand what they truly need.

And sometimes, the wait is where the shift happens. Quietly. Without warning.

Like tea steeping.

Like wounds closing.

Like forgiveness forming in the space where resentment used to live.

Not everything grows when watched. Some things only soften in silence.

So, this is for the ones still waiting. Not stuck. Just paused. Inhale. Don’t rush to the next moment. Stay here for a second longer. The wait time isn’t a void. It’s where the heart learns its own language.

I had just finished my afternoon class when one of my students came into the room. Due to the holiday schedule, we English teachers had been rotating short time off, which meant students were temporarily placed with different instructors for a couple of weeks. At my school, teachers are assigned to various student levels during this time. My usual class had been learning with someone else, while I was teaching a different group as well.

“I am very confident today, teacher.” “You were?” “Yes!”

Her face lit up in a way that made me pause. She’s the kind of student who’s been open (sometimes painfully so) about how anxious she feels when learning English. So when she said confident, it didn’t feel small. It felt like a door creaking open, like the first hint of sunlight after a long clouded day.

“What did you do in Teacher Y’s class?” “We did a lot. We write and talk about Julio Iglesias.” “Isn’t he a singer?” “Yes, he’s a singer.”

While we were talking, another student strolled in and chimed in with an update.

“And we finish Unit 2, teacher. We can continue to Unit 3 next week!” “Wow, that’s great. How do you like the book so far?”

A few weeks earlier, I had decided to switch textbooks. The old one was well-intended but far too difficult and it felt like trying to hike up a steep hill with no trail. We needed something that spoke to them where they were, not where some publisher thought they should be.

“It’s easy, teacher! We like.” “So it is easier to understand the content?” “Yes, teacher. It’s easier to understand the content.” “Is it more straightforward? Like right to the point?” “Yes, teacher, straightforward.” “Oh, I am glad you guys like the book.”

Honestly, it was a relief. It’s easy to forget that materials can make or break a learning experience, especially when students are just beginning. What Tomlinson (2012) calls “matching materials to learners' needs” isn’t about dumbing things down, it’s about opening the door wide enough for them to want to step through.

The second student headed off, and the one who had come in first, the one who's feeling confident stayed behind.

“So, what did Teacher Y say?” “We did something and she said ‘you can do it’ and I do it.” “Were you nervous?” “Maybe, teacher. But I am excited… I am confident.”

That moment when a student balances on the edge between nervousness and excitement and still chooses to believe in herself is electric. I could almost feel the adrenaline she must have felt. Mercer (2011) talks about how these little affirmations can actually reshape how learners see themselves. And it’s true. Sometimes all it takes is one “You can do it” at the right time, from the right person.

“I am really proud of you. I am glad you were confident today.” “Thank you, teacher.” “I will see you soon then?” “See you soon, teacher.”

After she left, I sat for a moment, letting it settle.

Moments like these, the unscripted and honest, are the ones I treasure most. They remind me why I teach, and more importantly, how I want to teach. With patience. With compassion. With all ears. The kind of environment Jennings and Greenberg (2009) write about emotional warmth becomes the soil where confidence grows.

And when I sit down and reflect on this (something Farrell encourages in his work on reflective teaching), I’m reminded that it’s not just about language skills. It’s about showing up for students in ways that tell them: you’re seen, you’re capable, and your voice matters.