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There’s a parable I remember but I can’t seem to find its source online, so if you find it or know it, let me know. I think it involved a Buddhist, but also maybe not.

One day a Buddhist woke up and found that his bedroom was a mess, so he fixed his room. When he stepped out into his apartment, he noticed that it was a mess. So, he fixed his apartment. Then he stepped out of his apartment to fix the world.

You make a difference in the world by starting from your immediate environment, according to the parable. You don’t have to start big, it’s saying.

In 2013, I was waiting for the metro one morning so I can go to my French class, where I would learn just enough to get by in Montreal.

As I stood by the rails and that metro came to a stop, there was a woman inside the carriage, she was maybe my age, and she made long eye contact with me through the window until the metro came to a halt, when she stepped.

I got shy. I’m not used to making long eye contact with people, and definitely not someone doing that to me.

When the door opened and she stepped out, she smiled at me. A big, genuine smile, I smiled back, and we passed each other as I got into the car and she left to her anonymity.

As the doors of the metro closed, I was still smiling big.

Inside the carriage, I looked up and noticed a man sitting across from me. He was looking at me and smiled back. He smiled because he saw my big smile. Then the lady next to him smiled at me too.

A few moments later, a few other people inside the carriage were smiling at each other.

“Whoever that woman was who smiled at me,” I thought to myself, “she has passed that smile onto so many other strangers.” A single smile doubled and quadrupled inside the metro. One act of kindness that made a carriage worth’s of change.

She was the Buddhist monk on her way out of her apartment to change the world.

When Rakan was still a year old, I would rock him to sleep in a rocking chair. And while I waited for him to fall asleep, I would rock the chair to the rhythm of his breathing, aligning my own breathing to his.

And then I would let my mind wander freely in that dark room.

And slowly, day after day, I realized that this was becoming my meditation. I called it “Meditations on A sleeping Child” and continued to practice it with Leil when he was born.

Once in a while, I’ll post a small piece of prose that’s sort of a “meditations”, a visual that has visited me) or that I’ve visited) during those nights, or more recently. They’re not meant for overthinking.

I am aware of the recurring themes of childhood and nature, and a deep sense of grief or loss that permeates those scenes. But I don’t judge them, just like they don’t judge me.

Side note: I don’t actually practice any form of mediation. I’m afraid of the dark, silence is too loud for me, and I can’t sit still in one position for too long before my body starts nagging.

When she found out she was having a boy, my mother didn’t hesitate for even a moment. She had always wanted a boy so she could name him Omar. For many months in the womb, she referred to me as Omar. In her mind and heart, she waited for Omar to arrive.

A few weeks before I was born, my grandmother asked my mom for a personal favor: To change her mind (and heart) about the name Omar. My grandmother suggested the name Rami, after the son of her “Christian neighbor”, whom she adored.

And so, I arrived, my mother’s Omar, now named Rami. And I can’t help but wonder how different I would’ve been as Omar.

Sometimes I’d look in the mirror and call myself Omar to see if I’d respond to the name, but I don’t respond. It could’ve been but it wasn’t.

Hi, my name is Rami, against all odds.