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  • My cousin told me he sees his faith, his Islam, as a finely tuned machine. By┬áthe pulling of levers and the oiling of its nooks and crannies, when tended to by the right tools, it favours him. When poorly maintained and neglected, everything breaks.

    Such mechanical, computational metaphors once resonated with me. Inputs, outputs, code. Rules for our wetware.

    But my faith is now less precise, fuzzier, ephemeral. Something sensorial, immanent, inexact.

    My uncalibrated faith ebbs and flows like tides. Lunar rhythms swirl it around my feet, drag it over me, drowning me. At times cleansing and soothing, but too often retreating rapidly, leaving me stranded between shore and horizon.

    I can't will it or summon it. I have to surrender and hope that my needs coincide with its mysterious algorithm.

    I shoulda learned to surf.


    Tide by Duncan Harris.

    Sea Waves by Mike Koenig.

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