When it gets really Real

The Nine-Sided Circle, the Sufi school which I co-founded several years ago, has developed quite a following. I've been reluctant to step into my natural role of authority within the space—until now.

786.

Forgive me for a bit of an awkward start. As is all too often the case for many self-described writers, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything of real substance.

I suspect that many who read this, at least initially, will be members or at least vaguely interested followers of my Sufi school, The Nine-Sided Circle. If that’s the case for you, my reader, then you already know I’m called Noor. If you’ve seen my face, then you also may have inferred that “Noor”—a common gender-neutral name that simply means “light” (as in beams of light) in Arabic, Farsi, Hindi, and other languages—is probably not the name given to me at birth; and you would be right. “Noor” was the nickname given to me by some dear friends many years ago, and since then, it’s become part of me. It is not my “Sufi name” (technically, you know, I actually don’t have one of those). But it does serve as a kind of reminder-talisman for the kind of impact I would like to have on the world. “Noor” has a certain implication of clarity of understanding, of purity of intention. I can only pray that I ever live up to that as a human, let alone as a so-called spiritual teacher.

Now I’ve awkwardly introduced myself, and maybe you have at least a flicker of a sense about what matters to me. Onward, with an intensely personal anecdote.

About seven months ago, I had the opportunity to take a crash course in personal mortality, thanks to an aggressive bacterial skin infection that came out of nowhere. Obviously, I’m still here, and in retrospect now, the fear, doubt, and pain can seem overblown to me. But at the time, it was different; our worry made sense. As the searing pain and tenderness continued to spread deeper into my body despite active treatment, we had no way of knowing when—or whether—there would be a recovery. The cell-butchering bacteria were already creeping into my lymph nodes and heading steadily up toward my brain.

As I lay in my hospital bed, thankful at having been blessed with the unexpected privacy of a single room, I found myself compelled to sing soft prayer songs to myself to help heal this body and encourage the dreaded intravenous medication (even in the face of death, I get very weird about hypodermic needles) to do its thing. I also took stock of the relatively short life I’ve lived, considering carefully my “triumphs” and “failures” as I saw them. If I didn’t survive beyond the next week or two, I mused, what exactly might my legacy be?

There were indeed triumphs. However imperfectly, I felt that I had loved well—that my closest dear ones knew that they mattered to me, because I had done my best over a lifetime to demonstrate love to them in ways they could receive. I felt loved and appreciated in return by them even if, again, perhaps imperfectly, and that was enough. I felt the satisfying weight of knowing I had grown a deep and mutually nourishing partnership with my partner. I knew it might very well shatter him to lose me, but that would be out of my hands in death; I accepted that he would have to choose his own response to the loss. I reflected, too, on the practical matter of who I might want to leave what—not that I had much of value, really, but it was the principle of the thing. Surely no one wants my clothes. Maybe they might like one of my old notebooks, or benefit from my laptop (…memory wiped, of course).

My perceived “failures”, though—those are what stung. I didn’t conceptualize “failure” in line with something like a failing grade but rather as any place in my life where I felt I had not fulfilled my destiny, my great aim. I felt shame. I spent so much time and energy simply hiding. I kept my Self quiet for protection and safety, but really, that didn't serve anyone who mattered, including me.

I felt sure then that I had not been brave enough to be the effective, visible Sufi teacher I wanted to be. But it stung all the more to face my own fearful reluctance to stand up and do my one job—waking up from ignorance and helping others do the same. I felt straight-up ineffectual. Likely, I thought, I was going to be forgotten altogether.

Such a classic self-absorbed deathbed thought, on the one hand. But on the other, there are so few of us women Sufi teachers whose names are remembered. Patriarchal structures have much more often than not rendered women’s contributions of all types invisible over the millennia. And I’ve personally encountered sexist, demeaning bullshit over the years even with my quite limited public presence. Even so, I knew I couldn’t blame The Patriarchy alone for my feeling vulnerable and inconsequential.

All of that was terrible. Boohoo. Very sad. I felt like I had disappointed the spiritual ancestors who had put their faith in me. But no, as the egoic chatter quieted, the true heartache lay in realizing that my own serious inner Work was so far from accomplished it had barely even begun. This was the beginning of my getting really Real.

That gut-punch has been the catalyzing shock behind so much change in my life over the six months since my full recovery. Sensitive spirit that I am, it is at times exhausting to chase the edge of discomfort, but in the process of doing so, I have become braver, bolder, more skillful, and more consistent in my dedication to my vocation. And I observe now that as I step up more, I am experiencing “being seen” (as in being witnessed and valued) to a greater extent—and I am grateful and gratified by that, even as I may also find it uncomfortable.

I don't think the fact that I tend to hide my strengths even now is any real revelation to those who love me. There’s still room for improvement within me when it comes to stepping up and actively demonstrating that I do know my shit. But as I settle into a more grounded view on this whole existential reckoning, it’s clear to me that there’s no need to go against my nature to prove to random assholes that I matter. Rather, the point is to just plain strive to be a little more comfortable with necessary discomfort. To take up the space that is my inherent birthright as a living being. To reach whomever is meant to be reached. To wear well the authority that I have earned through my experiences and knowledge, when wearing it is situationally appropriate. My partner, my friends, my students, my community—they’re all counting on me to finally show up for them as they’ve long been encouraging me to do.

So, one way I’ve arranged to keep nudging myself out there is through writing. Anyone who engages with my work with The Nine-Sided Circle already knows that we do a lot of Zooming and YouTubing. I can be honest with you: aside from one-on-one work, I’m basically maxed out on video-content commitments right now. Thankfully, folks still read the written word from time to time, and writing is where I get to slooow down and lean into my strengths.

So, I hereby commit to twelve essays this year, starting with this one. Maybe there will end up being more than twelve, but expect twelve as an attainable baseline. The title and overall look of this Substack newsletter may change as I make myself more at home, but the content will stand. I have a few ideas in mind for topics already, but I welcome any questions or idea suggestions that you would like to read responses to—responses offered, of course, specifically from my point of view.

Thanks for reading and for witnessing.

~ Noor