The Sanctuary of I Am

The Sanctuary of I Am

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

This is not a reflection of complaints.

This is a reflection of I Am.

Of soul.

Of knowing.

Of being.

Of breathing in the sacred silence that so many overlook while seeking gold in the noise.

This is my sanctuary of I Am.

My home my mount.

Not gilded nor towering in marble columns, but still, it stands.

To me, it is Mount Sinai, where wisdom whispers from burning bushes.

It is Mount Kailash, untouched and holy, veiled in mystery and mercy.

It is Mount Fuji, where the sun bows low each morning and says, “Rise.”

It is Mount Athos, where prayers never cease.

Jabal al-Nour, where revelation found a cave.

Mount Arafat, where forgiveness finds its footing.

Mount Judi, where the ark of survival and surrender found its rest.

It is my holy rise, a place where the sacred and the ordinary shake hands.

It is my 1,255 square foot temple on a 5,000 square foot patch of earth.

Nothing grand. Nothing showy.

No velvet ropes, no scrolling gates, no polished stone entryways.

It won’t make MTV Cribs.

It might not even make “Fix It or List It.”

It won’t sparkle in satellite images.

But what the heavens see when they look down is a rough gem cut by time, trial, and triumph.

When it rains, the roof leaks.

My rooms are jankey the bedrooms don’t whisper luxury, the bathrooms are half-dressed, my back door creaks like an old spiritual, my front door groans like it remembers yesterday's storm.

Kitchen cabinets that barely shut yet they hold memories and dishes the way a grandmother holds secrets in her apron.

My stovetop flickers with the spirit of resilience.

The microwave sputters like an old preacher catching his second wind.

The refrigerator well, she’s been faithful, barely breathing, but she holds on like a prayer.

My central air wheezes and hums like a choir of old saints off-key but faithful.

The backyard? A wild jungle.

Overgrown, unruly.

Missing only lions, tigers, and sloths yet full of hidden butterflies and unseen angels.

And in all this…

I Am.

I am grateful.

I am blessed.

I am loved not by masses, but by the One who crafted the sun and knows my name.

I am favored not by kings, but by the King of all things.

I am protected no alarm system, but the heavens keep watch.

I am called not by position, but by purpose.

I am the writer.

I am the scribe.

I carve eternal truths into the soft bark of time.

I may not possess much no treasure chests, no crown jewels.

But my words will never die.

They walk barefoot through generations.

They speak when I am silent.

They are my wealth.

I am poor by man’s measure.

I am rich by heaven’s account.

I am humble not from weakness, but from wisdom.

I am forgiving because I’ve been forgiven of things no man knew I carried.

I am merciful because mercy is the only light that led me through the darkest corners.

I am love not the kind found in poems, but the kind found in breaking bread with the forgotten.

I am the tear shed in midnight prayers.

I am the tears on cheeks too proud to cry.

I am the sob that didn’t make a sound but shook the heavens.

I am the whisper that said, “Still... I believe.”

I am grateful for all I do not have

Because what I do not have has taught me more than any abundance could.

I am grateful for what I do have

Because even manna in the desert fed the soul.

I am not upset.

Not mad.

Not bitter.

Not envious.

I have seen too much grace in cracked places.

I have seen too much light pour through holes to curse the broken things.

I have heard the voice of the Eternal whisper in peeling paint,

“I am here.”

Folklore: The Empty Bowl That Sang

They say once in a small sun-drenched village nestled in the valley beneath Mount Kailash, there lived a poor man named Arun.

He owned nothing but a small clay bowl, passed down by his grandmother, who had said,

"This bowl is sacred. Never fill it with pride."

Each day, Arun would walk to the village well and fill his bowl with water. He’d sip, offer some to strangers, and leave a bit at the temple door for the birds of heaven.

The villagers mocked him.

“Why do you keep that ugly bowl? Why not trade it for something beautiful?”

But Arun would only smile.

One drought-stricken year, no water came. The well dried up. Crops turned to dust. And despair made its home in every house except Arun’s.

One night, they heard singing soft, sweet, unearthly. It came from Arun’s hut. They peeked in and saw the clay bowl glowing, brimming with water, and singing praises to the One Above.

The elders asked, “What did you do?”

Arun said, “I gave thanks when it was full. I gave thanks when it was empty. I never filled it with complaint, only gratitude. So now it sings.”

And so the bowl became a village treasure.

Not because of the water.

Not because of the song.

But because it reminded them of what the Creator can fill when we remain empty of pride and full of praise.

And so here I stand, in my humble sanctuary.

No temple bells, no golden gates.

But the air is holy.

The floor is sacred.

The roof may leak,

but heaven still rains grace.

I sit beneath my own Mount Sinai and say:

I Am.

And that…

is more than enough.

---

I shall not rush this moment.

I shall not. curse the storm.

I will be still and grateful for I.

sense the Creator walking by.

Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

---