Call to prayer quiet

I went to the library by myself this evening for a book talk—entirely by myself. I got to read on the metro (since I wasn't keeping an eye on children), which meant I was only half paying attention to where I was, and was surprised to find my body leaning into the rhythm of the trip. I hardly had to think about where to go—when and how to switch trains—my feet just took me there on autopilot. 

I had a lovely chat with a woman from Iran/UK who came in just after me. 

And then got to listen to the book talk without having any little people interrupt me for any reason. It felt rather unusual. Our only interruption was the call to prayer, which sounds over the speaker system in the library. 

The author was in the middle of answering a question when the call to prayer began. He finished his sentence, then turned off his microphone and held it in his lap. And then interviewer did the same. The audience sat in silence, just listening to the call to prayer. 

Outside of the event hall we could hear the thrum of activity in the rest of the library, the buzzing of voices in the cafe area, the footfalls of people walking past the doorway. But inside the event all, it was the picture of tranquility. 

I once wrote a poem about how much I love the call to prayer—specifically in Cairo, the land of a thousand minarets—and how, since it wasn't specifically scheduled, the call would come to me helter-skelter, with different muezzins seeming to echo one another. And how I learned to even appreciate the dawn call to prayer, which would crackle through my window (we lived quite near to a mosque with a terrible sound system) and I would be up with baby Miriam and would hear the call to prayer and it felt so comforting to me...to know that I wasn't alone being up at that hour, that all around me in the city people were coming together to pray, and how I learned to take that moment to remember to pray myself...

And it felt very sacred and beautiful to write all this down.

And then my teacher was like, "This smacks of Orientalism" and discouraged me from publishing it (and rather encouraged me to leave off, not even revise, because it was an unredeemable poem). 

And...uh...that was crushing...because I typically rather value(d) her advice. And it isn't like I was making up crazy stuff in order to produce and perpetuate stereotypes. The call to prayer is...kind of a thing...

So, uh, I revised the poem anyway. And it did get published. And I think it's probably fine.

I find myself still so taken with the moments the call to prayer makes for me. And here was another beautiful moment where I was surrounded by a roomful of people who were, like me, suspended in time. 

I don't know for certain how anyone else used that time, but I know, for me, it was a time to consider God's greatness. It was also a beautiful time to pray.

As happenstance—or divine intervention—would have it, my friend Natalie sent out a text message to the Relief Society group chat, asking us to pray for her niece, who was about to undergo spinal surgery (for about the 35th time in her young life). This text message came through to my phone just before the call to prayer and I glanced at it before the call to prayer sounded. And, I dunno...we're so quick to throw up little "praying hands" emojis, so quick to say "I'll pray for ya!" but...I don't know how often we really get around to sincerely praying about those things. 

But I took those quiet moments to pray and it was lovely. 

And then the call to prayer ended, the interviewer picked up her microphone, switched it on, and said, “Thank you everyone. Now…we were talking about crafting and world building...” and carried on with the interview.