My friend Nizam Missaghi has just released his heartfelt memoir called Passport to Freedom. Published by Regalo Press (which is committed to supporting nonprofit work by donating to charities of its authors’ choosing) and distributed by Simon and Schuster, Nizam’s book offers us a story of belonging and exile, oppression, hope and gratitude. As well as being a physician, author and champion of human rights, Nizam is also a promoter and lover of the arts and I think all of the qualities and attributes associated with that array of work is manifested in this book.

In this interview, Nizam shares why he wrote the book, and what passports and freedom can mean.

Can you briefly tell us about your book, Passport to Freedom?

Passport to Freedom is a memoir about growing up as a Baha’i in post-revolutionary Iran, where religious persecution increasingly limited my future, and eventually leaving Iran as a teenager and starting over in America.

But I don’t see it simply as an immigration or escape story. It’s about the people who helped me along the way, the opportunities that transformed my life, and what happens when someone once denied opportunity is eventually given more of it than he could have ever imagined. At its heart, it’s about freedom, gratitude, and what we choose to do with both.

Why was it important for you to write this book?

Part of it was a desire to preserve a story before details disappeared with time. The oral history of Iran’s Baha’i community is actively suppressed by the Iranian government and the experiences are denied or minimized. The preservation of these stories is paramount in this environment. 

The deeper reason to write was gratitude. I realized how many people had changed the trajectory of my life—my parents, relatives, teachers, friends, and even strangers who opened doors without knowing where they would lead. In many ways, the book became a long thank you letter.

I also wanted my children to understand the world their father came from. Their experience is very different from mine, thankfully. I wanted them to understand not only what happened, but what it taught me about freedom, opportunity, and responsibility.

Your title is Passport to Freedom. Why “passport”? Does it mean more than a document for crossing borders?

Very much so. Looking back, I realize I had many passports. My parents were passports. The people who helped me escape Iran were passports. My aunt in America was a passport. Teachers who believed in me and institutions that gave me opportunities became passports. These “human passports,” much like the booklet, open doors to new horizons and opportunities, sometimes at a great cost or risk to themselves  

We like to tell stories about individual achievement, but none of us arrives anywhere entirely on our own. My life is a chain of people who carried me from one possibility to the next.

So the larger question behind the title is: Who was a passport for you—and whose passport can you become?

You describe an Iran filled with beauty, family, culture, and cherished memories, but also a country where persecution restricted your future. Was that paradox difficult to write about?

It was, because I never wanted the book to become an indictment of Iran or the Iranian people. I love Iran deeply—its people, poetry, music, humour, language, and the warmth of Iranian families. Some of my happiest childhood memories happened there.

But loving a country doesn’t require romanticizing it or remaining silent about injustice. Sometimes the deepest form of love is to be critical of injustice and inequality.

There is an important distinction between Iran and the system that governs it. A government does not own a civilization, a culture, or its people.

I can remember the beauty of my childhood while also remembering the fear. Perhaps that’s part of what exile teaches you: you can leave a country without it ever leaving you.

Were there other struggles or considerations you faced while writing the book?

One challenge was resisting the temptation to tell the story entirely through persecution. What happened to Baha’is in Iran was real—the discrimination, executions, denial of education, and fear—but I never wanted persecution to become my identity.

If the story ends with victimhood, then the people who inflicted those wounds still get to define you.

Those experiences gave me a sensitivity to exclusion that followed me into medicine, education, philanthropy, and human rights work. I would never say I’m grateful those things happened. Some things should never happen. But once they have, we can ask: What am I going to do with them?

Freedom is central to the book. What does being “free” mean to you today?

You can cross a border in minutes. It can take years to cross the borders inside yourself.

When you grow up learning to be careful about what you say, believe, or reveal about yourself, those habits don’t simply disappear when you arrive somewhere else.

For me, freedom means being able to ask questions, change my mind, disagree without fear, and imagine a future someone else hasn’t prescribed for me.

But freedom also carries responsibility. If I have the privilege of speaking freely, I have some responsibility to speak for people who cannot. Freedom isn’t simply something we escape to. It’s something we learn to practice.

What do you hope readers walk away with after reading the book?

Gratitude, but not passive gratitude. The kind that makes you want to do something.

I hope readers ask: Who helped me become who I am—and what am I doing with what they gave me?

For much of life, we ask: Who will open a door for me? Who will give me a chance? If we’re fortunate, eventually we find ourselves on the other side. Then the question becomes: Whose door can I open now?

My journey required many passports. The greatest way I can honour those who became passports for me is to become one for someone else.

Is there anything else you’d like to share?

I hope people don’t read this simply as my story, or even simply as an Iranian story. The circumstances may be specific, but the larger questions are universal.

All of us inherit circumstances we didn’t choose. All of us encounter people who change our trajectory. Eventually, we have to decide what to do with the opportunities we’ve been given.

If the book encourages someone to recognize the people who became passports in their life—and then become that person for somebody else—writing it was worthwhile.

Thank you so much, Nizam, for taking the time to share this with me and congratulations on the publication of your memoir!

You can find out more and purchase Passport to Freedom by visiting nizammissaghi.com.

I don’t regard myself as a hedonist. I’m quite aware that as a Bahai, I should devote myself to God’s pleasure, not my own. This is something I wrote about some time ago.

Have I made progress in my attempts to please God? Only He knows. It’s one thing to say that we want to please God but another thing to actually put that into practice.

But despite not regarding myself as a hedonist, one whose primary purpose in life is the pursuit of pleasure, I wonder if I’m a closet hedonist after all. A quote from Baha’u’llah that I memorised a long time ago came to mind the other day and made me question my own motives:

O SON OF MAN! If thou lovest Me, turn away from thyself; and if thou seekest My pleasure, regard not thine own; that thou mayest die in Me and I may eternally live in thee.¹

What stood out to me was the part about not regarding my own pleasure. I’ve been aiming at God’s pleasure for some time now, but maybe I’ve overlooked the ways in which my own pleasure has got in the way of that. This can be a confusing thing because Baha’u’llah says we can enjoy the things of this world, as long as they do not stand between us and God. Baha’u’llah explains this idea as follows:

“Know ye that by ‘the world’ is meant your unawareness of Him Who is your Maker, and your absorption in aught else but Him. The ‘life to come,’ on the other hand, signifieth the things that give you a safe approach to God, the All-Glorious, the Incomparable. Whatsoever deterreth you, in this Day, from loving God is nothing but the world. Flee it, that ye may be numbered with the blest. Should a man wish to adorn himself with the ornaments of the earth, to wear its apparels, or partake of the benefits it can bestow, no harm can befall him, if he alloweth nothing whatever to intervene between him and God, for God hath ordained every good thing, whether created in the heavens or in the earth, for such of His servants as truly believe in Him. Eat ye, O people, of the good things which God hath allowed you, and deprive not yourselves from His wondrous bounties.”²

There are a number of concepts here but I’d like to focus on what I find relates most to pleasure. From what I comprehend from this passage it is fine for us to gain pleasure from the things of the world. We can adorn ourselves with dazzling jewellery and stylish clothes; we can benefit from the modern world’s conveniences. But how can we tell which things stand between us and God? If something consumes our time and attention so much that we forget to meet our spiritual obligations, such as prayer, then this seems like a clear sign that it is blocking us from God.

But I think there are other signs too. As I understand it, we are not here just to pray and meditate all day. We are here to engage with the world and make it a better place, for all the people and creatures that inhabit it. To serve others for the love of God is to serve God. So anything that takes us away from meeting this objective is taking us away from God. If we neglect our family, slack off at work or ignore those suffering around us, we have gone off the path to God. If our focus becomes primarily on pleasure, this may detract us from serving others. All our spare time can easily be spent on enjoying ourselves and not on devoting ourselves to the people or the planet through acts of service.

I believe we also need to take care of ourselves as servants of God, so if we neglect our own health and wellbeing, we have also gone off the path to God. Pleasure can be a way to rejuvenate ourselves. Enjoying a walk in the park, a good book or an entertaining movie are ways to release stress and “refill our cups.” That said, they can also become all consuming—well, usually not walking in the park. If we place too much importance on these things or spend too much time on them, then we leave less time and energy for serving others. We need to use wisdom and honesty to decide what is enough time enjoying something and when it is lessening the time we devote to service.

It seems to me that this approach helps us avoid two extremes–hedonism and asceticism–and attain what Aristotle called “the Golden Mean”, which is the virtuous sweet spot between two vices.

In a hedonistic life, pleasure is the main objective. A pleasurable life is seen to be a meaningful life; a life of pain and suffering is regarded as devoid of meaning. What this type of life looks like in practice will vary from person to person. For some it might involve indulging in delicious food; for others it might involve extreme sports. The first documented proponent of this way of life was the ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus, who advised that the most pleasurable life was one of inner peace and tranquillity. For him, this was attained through the development of wisdom, courage, and self-control.

Asceticism, on the other hand, is about shunning all types of pleasure and living a life of complete restraint. Those who choose this life may be monastics or other spiritual devotees like the sadhus of India who engage in severe self-denial like lengthy periods of fasting and even extreme forms of self-harm. I can see why some religious people turn to monasticism and shun the pleasures of the world: it makes their life simpler and the focus on spirituality more salient. But in so doing it seems to me that they deprive themselves of the gifts of the world that God has given us.

So let’s come back to the original question, “is it wrong to seek pleasure?” I would say that from what I know of a Baha’i perspective, experiencing pleasure is not wrong at all, as long as it is done in moderation and within the bounds of God’s laws and principles. However, seeking pleasure is another thing. To seek something, to me, is not just to engage in it but it is to make something a very deep priority and become determined to attain that. As Baha’u’llah has advised, if we truly want to draw nearer to God, He must be our primary objective. Therefore, we can’t seek pleaser and seek God to equal extents because pleasure as an end-in-itself may often stand in the way of attaining God. That said, I think even seeking pleasure for its own sake is not deeply wrong–it would only be immoral if we gained pleasure in causing harm to others. But to place pleasure as our main objective in life is to prevent us from attaining our highest life and fullest potential.

I see it as though we are trying to reach the top of a mountain by following a defined path. In order to succeed, we need to stay focused on that path. It is fine to stop and smell the fragrant flowers along the way (which would be pleasurable) but to turn pleasure into a pursuit is to risk veering off the path or making our progress along the path very slow. Afterall, how fast can we walk if we stop to smell every single flower? And as we progress up the mountain, we will enjoy the path itself and the amazing vistas it reveals.

This may look differently to each one of us. It might mean doing our paid work with diligence and dedication, taking care of family affairs with a sense of love and responsibility, devoting our time to educating children, alleviating poverty, planting trees or the many other acts of service we can render–all of which we can enjoy when done in a spirit of service. And along with those altruistic acts we can enjoy some time drinking coffee, watching TV, reading a book, bungee jumping, walking in the park or smelling flowers.

1. Baha’u’llah, The Hidden Words
2. Baha’u’llah, Gleanings from the Writings of Baha’u’llah

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Hello friends,

Tests, difficulties and closed doors are threads that ran through recent content on Baha’i Blog.

In times of tests, I often rely on a prayer by the Bab that begins, “Is there any remover of difficulties”. This month we shared Edward Amaya’s rendition of the song “Kodi [Palinso Wina]”, a Chichewa translation of that very prayer. We also highlighted Baha’i Inspired Hip Hop Session “Bird in the Mesh” about the challenges and pitfalls of this material existence. And we published a personal piece by Andi Seals about how creating art helped her navigate the trials of grieving the loss of her husband, singer-songwriter Dan Seals.

Closed doors as incarceration comes to mind when thinking about a recent Studio Sessions featuring youth from the Czech Republic who sang “Remember My Days” based on an excerpt from the Tablet of Ahmad where Baha’u’llah refers to His imprisonment.

Nick also offered us his personal thoughts on the blessings of closed doors, not when we are held against our will, but when we ask for something and do not receive it. He described how “our task is not simply to ask for what we want, but to pray that He opens the doors that are meant for us and closes those that are not. What appears to be a missed opportunity or a disappointment may, in reality, be a form of divine protection and guidance.”

I’ve been reflecting on the upcoming celebrations for the Twin Holy Days, the connection between the Bab and Baha’u’llah, a sacred mission entrusted to Mulla Husayn, and the closed doors he encountered. May I tell you the story?

It begins with the end of a chapter.

Eighteen souls, of their own accord, found the Bab and recognised His Station. They were then entrusted with sacred missions. The Bab chose Quddus to accompany Him on His pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina but told Mulla Husayn:

“We have left you behind to face the onslaught of a fierce and relentless enemy. Rest assured, however, that a bounty unspeakably glorious shall be conferred upon you. Follow the course of your journey towards the north, and visit on your way Isfahan, Kashan, Qum, and Tihran. Beseech almighty Providence that He may graciously enable you to attain, in that capital, the seat of true sovereignty, and to enter the mansion of the Beloved. A secret lies hidden in that city. When made manifest, it shall turn the earth into paradise. My hope is that you may partake of its grace and recognise its splendour.” 

In The Dawn-Breakers, Nabil recounts what happened next: when Mulla Husayn arrived in Tihran, he lived in one of the rooms belonging to the leader and respected teacher of the shaykhi community. (You remember the shaykhis–they were students of Shaykh Ahmad and Siyyid Kazim searching for the Promised One.)

Despite Mulla Husayn’s attempts, this teacher failed to respond to the news about the Bab and His station. The teacher told Mulla Husayn, “We had cherished the hope that after the death of Siyyid Kazim you would strive to promote the best interest of the shaykhi community and would deliver it from the obscurity into which it has sunk. You seem, however, to have betrayed its cause. You have shattered our fondest expectations. If you persist in disseminating these subversive doctrines, you will eventually extinguish the remnants of the shaykhis in this city.”

Mulla Husayn assured him that was in no wise his intent. The door to the teacher’s heart was firmly shut.

Mulla Husayn would thus leave his room early in the morning and return in the dark, shutting his door behind him.

One of the favoured students of the teacher was Mulla Muhammad, who lived in the same dwelling. He overheard the conversation between his teacher and Mulla Husayn and was “deeply affected by the ardour, the fluency, and the learning of that youth, and deeply resented the unseemly conduct of [his] teacher towards him.”

Mulla Muhammad waited until midnight and knocked on Mulla Husayn’s closed door. Mulla Husayn was awake and received Mulla Muhammad with extreme courtesy. When Mulla Muhammad unburdened his heart, Mulla Husayn replied “I can now see the reason why I have chosen to dwell in this place.”

Mulla Husayn then asked his guest his name and where he was from. When he learned Mulla Muhammad was from Nur, he asked if there was anyone there from the family of the late Mirza Buzurg-i-Nuri, who was known for his “character, charm, and artistic and intellectual attainments.” Mulla Muhammad replied that indeed one of Mirza Buzurg’s distinguished sons was known to cheer the disconsolate, feed the hungry, and befriend the poor. With a face beaming with joy, Mulla Husayn asked Mulla Muhammad to deliver a scroll from the Bab to this person, who, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, was none other than Baha’u’llah.

Mulla Muhammad delivered the scroll to Baha’u’llah who read it and said,

“Verily I say, whoso believes in the Qur’an and recognises its Divine origin, and yet hesitates, though it be for a moment, to admit that these soul-stirring words are endowed with the same regenerating power, has most assuredly erred in his judgment and has strayed far from the path of justice.”

Baha’u’llah then asked Mulla Muhammad to express His appreciation and love for Mulla Husayn and to give him some Russian sugar and a package of tea. When Mulla Muhammad did so, he was astonished and puzzled by the intensity of joy with which Mulla Husayn received the gifts. He struggled to understand what had occurred.

When Mulla Husayn left and bade Mulla Muhammad farewell, his mission in Tihran accomplished, he said:

“Breathe not to anyone what you have heard and witnessed. Let this be a secret hidden within your breast. Divulge not His name, for they who envy His position will arise to harm Him. In your moments of meditation, pray that the Almighty may protect Him, that, through Him, He may exalt the downtrodden, enrich the poor, and redeem the fallen. The secret of things is concealed from our eyes. Ours is the duty to raise the call of the New Day and to proclaim this Divine Message unto all people…”

Isn’t that a marvellous story?

If you’re looking for resources for celebrating the Twin Holy Days, we have special collections dedicated to the Birth of the Bab, the Birth of Baha’u’llah, as well are more general collections associated with the Bab and Baha’u’llah. I hope you find them helpful in the coming days and weeks.

Happy month of Knowledge!

Just recently, I was going through a period of turbulence in my life. Like many of us do when faced with uncertainty, I was searching for answers and trying to understand why certain doors seemed to be closing while others remained stubbornly out of reach. Plans I had hoped would work out were not unfolding the way I expected, and I struggled to make sense of it all.

During that time, I spoke with a wise friend. As I shared my concerns, he gently reminded me of something profound: Baha’u’llah opens doors, and He also closes them. Our task is not simply to ask for what we want, but to pray that He opens the doors that are meant for us and closes those that are not. What appears to be a missed opportunity or a disappointment may, in reality, be a form of divine protection and guidance.

His words stayed with me long after our conversation ended. The more I reflected on them, the more I realized how often I assume I know what is best for me. When a door opens, I celebrate. When a door closes, I question, resist, or become discouraged. Yet perhaps the closed doors in our lives are just as much a sign of God’s care as the open ones.

His advice brought to mind a beautiful passage from The Seven Valleys of Baha’u’llah.

In the Valley of Knowledge, the seeker begins to understand that he cannot always judge what is truly good or bad for him. What appears as fear may be mercy, and what seems like loss may be the hidden path to union with the Beloved.

Baha’u’llah recounts the story of Majnun, whose heart and mind was wholly devoted to Layli. One day, as he wandered through the streets in longing and distress, a watchman followed closely behind him. In his confusion and exhaustion, Majnun cried out:

“Surely this watchman is Izrail, my angel of death, following so fast upon me.”¹

Believing he was being pursued by death itself, he ran faster and faster. In his desperation, he climbed over a high wall and fell into a garden.

There, everything changed.

Within the garden, he found Layli, quietly searching for something she had lost. Instantly, fear gave way to joy. What he had mistaken for danger had led him directly into the presence of his beloved.

Discovering the truth, Majnun realized that the watchman was not Izrail, the angel of death, but rather an instrument of divine guidance. What seemed like an ending had actually been a beginning. What he feared most had become the very means by which he attained what he longed for.

Filled with gratitude, he prayed:

“O God! Bestow honour upon the watchman, and riches and long life. For the watchman was Gabriel, guiding this poor one; or he was Israfil, bringing life to this wretched one!”¹

Baha’u’llah then offers a profound insight:

“Now if the lover could have seen the end, he would from the beginning have blessed the watchman, prayed God on his behalf, and seen his tyranny as justice; but since the end was veiled to him, he lamented and made his plaint in the beginning.” ((Baha’u’llah, The Seven Valleys))

How often is this true in our own lives?

We lament when doors close. We complain when our plans fail. We fear delays, disappointments, and unexpected changes. Yet our perspective is limited. We see only the beginning of the story, while God sees its end. We judge events by their immediate appearance, unaware of the blessings that may be hidden within them.

One of the lines I find most striking in this section of The Seven Valleys is:

“Split the atom’s heart, and lo!
Within it thou wilt find a sun.”¹

Even within the smallest and darkest moments of our lives, there may be a concealed light waiting to be discovered. What appears insignificant or painful may contain wisdom and blessings far better than we can presently imagine.

Looking back on my own life, I can think of situations that once seemed disappointing but later proved necessary. Opportunities I desperately wanted never fulfilled. Plans changed direction unexpectedly. At the time, I could not understand why. Yet with the benefit of intuition, contemplation, and trust, I can see that some of those closed doors protected me from paths that were not meant for me and guided me toward experiences that helped me grow.

Perhaps this is what Baha’u’llah means when He says that those who journey in the garden of true knowledge “see the end in the beginning.” They recognize that God’s providence is present even when it is hidden from view. They find peace where others see conflict, and trust where others see uncertainty.

Perhaps faith is not knowing where every door leads. Perhaps faith is trusting the One who holds the keys.

1. Baha’u’llah, The Seven Valleys

Art comes in many forms–painting, drawing, dramatic presentation, song, poetry, and storytelling. It can be used to inspire, to encourage, to capture beauty, and to entertain. But, for the artist, it can also be a way to heal, a way to move forward when you feel completely paralyzed.

That is the part of my journey that I want to share with you: how I found comfort and healing through artistic expression.

When my husband Danny (singer-songwriter known to many as Dan Seals) passed away from cancer, I suffered an unimaginable sense of loss and grief. I had no idea how to process or even express my emotions, how to cope and go on with a life that had changed dramatically, how to live a life that was “we” but now is just “me.”

I traveled, I moved, I consulted psychics, psychologists, grief groups, joined clubs, took classes, taught classes, spent time with friends and family, and produced art for two major art shows. And yet, I could not escape the pain that I felt, the emptiness.

I thought all of these activities would be very effective in helping me move through my grief more quickly. I was trying to be a good griever, running toward being healthy again.

But, somewhere along that journey, I realized that I was actually trying to run away from the pain, to be too busy to notice.

When I finally stopped running and came home, I remembered that I had been keeping a journal, writing my story, documenting my feelings. When I sat on the couch in silence, it occurred to me that my journals, my scattered notes of my thoughts and experiences, my paintings, my art, were opening doors of understanding, giving me clarity and helping me process what was happening to me and around me.

When I realized it was serving me well, helping me face my pain rather than run from it, I decided to put it into my first book, A Crocus in Winter, that addressed the harsh reality of my husband’s illness and passing, and my efforts in learning to cope with my agony.

Over the next several years, I continued adding to my story, and I still do. It has always been a part of who I am. I hadn’t travelled in quite a while when I came across an art course being offered in California. I had taken online courses with this artist before so I knew it would be valuable. And it was! I learned a lot about contemporary business practices, and the value of sharing my work on social media. But most of all, I was confirmed not only in identifying myself as an artist, but in recognizing myself as a work of art as well. Seeing my way of being as worthy of my artistry was new for me.

Acknowledging how integral creativity is to who I am, I returned home and converted my bedroom into a studio, making the guest room my bedroom instead. Why should I relegate my greatest joy to an inconvenient corner when I could give it space and easy access? The studio is now full of finished work and pieces in various stages. It is colorful, comfortable, and inspiring.

But this was more than just a “space.” It was a safe haven to paint, to write, to dream, and to pray. I will never underestimate the power of prayer in producing art, and in overcoming challenges in trying to produce my best work. Abdu’l-Baha said, “When your fingers grasp the paintbrush it is as though one wert at prayer.”

During the years that followed, I began to notice and appreciate the simple occurrences in my daily life—such as a butterfly on my shoulder–that would trigger memories, that would allude to things that only Danny would know about. Others may call it coincidence. But for me, I began to understand that this was a real, a true and inexplicable connection with him in the next world. Once I became aware of these moments of connection, I realized they had been happening all along. But I had been too busy to notice. Now I take the time to savor them. And that’s how the real healing began.

It was those moments, those gems, that brightened my day. Now, I look forward to them. I truly believe that had I not had to endure the pain, I might not have the ability to recognize these moments of connection. And that is what inspired me to write my second book, The Width of Heaven, to give hope to those in deep grief, and inspire others to consider the possibility that death does not have to define an ending, but can be an invitation to new beginnings.

This book is my memoir that shares my journey of marriage, grief, faith, creativity, and healing. It addresses issues of loss and transformation in a way that is very personal to me.

In writing it, the question was: how do I address such a heavy topic in a way that’s meaningful to the general public and that shares the Baha’i perspective that the death of a loved one does not have to be debilitating? That it can instead be an opportunity to understand another dimension of love? The answer was to take my readers on my journey.

Weaving stories, reflections, paintings, and spiritual insights, I share the life Danny and I built together–the laughter, the challenges, the ordinary moments that became sacred–and the remarkable lessons that emerged after his passing.

And I include inspiring quotes from the Baha’i Writings that remind us of the nature of death, and the power of prayer, quotes that have increased my awareness that Danny is still here beside me.

My journey has been a long one, and it was not always easy. But it has been fruitful. I’ve learned a lot.

I have learned that I am not a recreational painter. It is not a hobby for me. I don’t do it to relax. I wish I could. Most frequently it is an involuntary compulsion I either accept or deny. My acceptance comes in the form of a daily practice whether it’s for 20 minutes or hours. My fuel is not to feel happy as much as to feel in my purpose. Happiness, when it comes, is the by-product. I strive to create something, learn something of value to my process. I rely on those urges I mentioned to lead me to an unusual combination of colors or a particular tool, medium or material. I might experiment with a new technique. I may not understand the why of it or even the choice in that instant but I go with it. The session might be shortened by my not liking the direction the work has taken, and choosing to come back later with a fresh vision. Inevitably, as I move through the piece layer by layer I discover a sense of coherence with what appears. The success of this “give and take” aspect is based on trust in the process and some detachment from the result.

I have learned that when I try to initiate intimate communication with the Divine, I find it challenging to get myself out of the way. I am so distractible. I’ve noticed that when I strongly desire or need something, it disrupts the balance of the conversation. If I embark with sincerity, minimal visual intention at the outset, with no attachment to the outcome, relying only on the intuitive urges that come, what others refer to as FLOW can emerge. I cannot consciously create this state, but I try as best I can to remove “my insistent self” in order to receive what I perceive as a gift of the Divine Kingdom, immersing myself in a higher soul-attentive space. That is the ideal. It doesn’t happen as often as I would like.

Baha’u’llah stated:

“The Prophets and Messengers of God have been sent down […] to educate all men, that they may, at the hour of death, ascend […] to the throne of the Most High. The light which these souls radiate is responsible for the progress of the world […] They are like unto leaven which leaveneth the world of being, and constitute the animating force through which the arts and wonders of the world are made manifest.”¹

If that is so, and I believe it is, then Danny must be part of that leaven now—some measure of living yeast still lifting me. Every minute, centuries of souls radiate the bread of the spirit, an unseen rising that stirs hearts and quickens imagination. Who receives what portion, and when? I do not know. I only know I do not want to miss what is meant for me. Perhaps it comes in a daydream or in the silence that follows prayer. Perhaps in consultation with friends, or while I wait, brush in hand, for the muse. Communication with the next world feels like exchange. I ask. God responds. The Divine Concourse stands ready, but I must open the channel. Sometimes the exchange is whisper-quiet, a wistful wish heard, a barely perceptible whoosh. Sometimes it arrives urgently, like salvation bestowed after one agonized cry.

Baha’u’llah said, “I have made death a messenger of joy to thee.” I have always believed that to be true. But I thought it referred to the one who had passed on. I could not comprehend how it applied to the one that remained. Now I understand.

My journey has been long, but it is not over yet. Where will the road take me next? I don’t know. Maybe I will travel again, take more classes, create more art. But this time, I will not go alone. This time, it won’t be “me.” It will be “we.” This time, I will take Danny with me.

You can purchase The Width of Heaven from Amazon. Find out more about Andi and her art by visiting Andiseals.com!

1. Baha’u’llah, Gleanings from the Writings of Baha’u’llah

Hi friends!

Last month we rejoiced to see that one of the episodes of the Baha’i Stories Podcast is reaching more viewers than any other thus far! It’s one that focuses on stories about Fujita and instances where he made Abdu’l-Baha laugh:

In addition to the stories Sana shares in the podcast, I love returning to another funny anecdote about Fujita. It involves Curtis Kelsey, an American who was serving in Haifa installing electric lights in and around the Shrines of the Bab and Baha’u’llah. The story goes like this:

Fujita had loved to party when he lived in California and he brought an elegant tuxedo with him to Haifa. He would often put it on and then jokingly complain about having nowhere to wear it!

Abdu’l-Baha sent Curtis and Fujita to Egypt to purchase special wiring for the Shrine of the Bab and Fujita insisted on taking his tuxedo on the trip. When they arrived in Cairo, they met an American who recognized them from a recent pilgrimage. She insisted that they stay where she was staying–the Continental Hotel, one of the most expensive hotels in northern Africa in 1921. They were dazzled by its elegance, and after being used to a thin mattress and shaking out their shoes lest scorpions be hiding inside, they were particularly delighted by the opulence of their room–Fujita dove right into the thick quilts of his bed! When the bell-hop, who treated them with much deference, announced that they were invited to dine with their host, guess what Fujita wore? Somehow, Curtis felt that Abdu’l-Baha had made it possible for Fujita to fulfill his wish!

Enjoying these stories spurred me to dig through our vast library of content on Baha’i Blog and see what else we have on the subject of laughter, joy and comedy.

You might wish to revisit our Baha’i Blogcast episode with comedian Omid Djalili and with Mary and Clark Donnelly (at that time they were speaking about their hit comedy sitcom, Little Mosque on the Prairie). We also shared a presentation by Jordan Raj all about conscious comedy. A few months ago, Susan Gammage shared her written thoughts on the importance of humour.

I unearthed a video from Baha’i Blog’s early years that features a stop-motion animation based on the passage “joy gives us wings”:

I found a sweet short film from Zambia about the joy that comes from serving others and Tatiana Zamir’s talk about cultivating a relationship with joy. You’d think that as the editor of Baha’i Blog, I wouldn’t be surprised by my findings, but there is so much content on Baha’i Blog; even I was astonished to rediscover some of these older gems!

Lastly, media projects that personally brought me immense joy to watch are the films commissioned by the Universal House of Justice over the years. I have found each one deeply inspiring and joy-enkindling! You can find them all on Bahai.org.

Wishing you joy and laughter this month of Mashiyyat!

Love,
Sonjel

When I sit down to my morning prayers, I often have a whole list of concerns that I am asking for help with like relationship conflicts, work problems, and creative conundrums. I regularly remind myself that there are no problems too big or too small for God to help me solve. If the issue is preventing me from being a better human being, then it is worthy of consideration in my prayers and meditations. This is part of me trying to understand cohesion between my body, mind, heart, and soul—between my inner and outer life. 

I am an author and a professor as well as a Baha’i, so I spend my days thinking a lot about writing, teaching, and community outreach, which requires a great deal of creative thought and energy to complete successfully. In order to avoid the many possible places that I can get stuck, it is important to have practices to systematically figure things out and move through difficulties. 

For many years now, I have been trying to intentionally use a process of prayer and meditation to help me overcome challenges in my everyday life as well as my creative work.There is a Baha’i practice that is recommended, but not required, called the five steps of prayer. One version can be found in the back of the small white prayerbook called Baha’i Prayers & Holy Writings A Selection, while I pulled this version from a letter written on behalf of the Universal House of Justice.

Here are the steps interlaced with examples of how I have tried to follow the advice (bolded text added for emphasis): 

“Pray and meditate about it. Use the prayers of the Manifestations, as they have the greatest power. Learn to remain in the silence of contemplation for a few moments. During this deepest communion take the next step.”

Last spring, I was thinking about how to unite my writing with being a Baha’i. I wanted to find a way to naturally write about my spiritual life that was not off-putting to a general reader. One morning when I was praying, I asked for guidance to share my faith with a wider audience through the art of writing. 

“Arrive at a decision and hold to this. This decision is usually born in a flash at the close or during the contemplation. It may seem an almost impossible accomplishment, but if it seems to be an answer to prayer or a way of solving the problem, then immediately take the next step.”

I suddenly had the idea to create a compilation of stories, essays, and poems about the power of prayer in contemporary life. I imagined asking fellow authors to contribute their best creative pieces about praying and meditating. Instantly, the names of two writers who could contribute pieces of writing, as well as collaborate with me on editing the project, came to mind. At that time, I did not know these two people well, but I had confidence in their abilities from our interactions in writing circles. 

“Have determination to carry the decision through. Many fail here. The decision, budding into determination, is blighted and instead becomes a wish or a vague longing. When determination is born, immediately take the next step.”

I sent out emails, made phone calls, and posted on social media. The two people immediately agreed to help me as co-editors for my project. This led to conversations that created action. Each step forward was greeted with overwhelming positivity and excitement. Everyone said, “Yes! Let’s write about prayer and publish a book together!” Over the course of last summer and fall, twenty-some authors sent me their creative pieces. 

“Have faith and confidence, that the Power of the Holy Spirit will flow through you, the right way will appear, the door will open, the right message, the right principle or the right book will be given to you. Have confidence, and the right thing will come to meet your need. Then as you rise from prayer, immediately take the fifth step.”

A Hundred Thousand Hopes quickly took on a life of its own and felt genuinely inspired by a power greater than myself. I was not in the driver’s seat, but was a passenger along for the ride. Whenever I seemed to lose my way, I sat down again to pray and meditate about how to overcome the most current concern.

“Act as though it had all been answered. Then act with tireless, ceaseless energy. And, as you act, you yourself will become a magnet which will attract more power to your being, until you become an unobstructed channel for the Divine Power to flow through you.”

Now, I need to follow the last piece of advice and act as if it has all been done and the final outcome of the published book has already been achieved. Just writing that last sentence caused an amazing amount of energy to pulse through my body. I feel encouraged to keep working on the project and assured of its success. Now, it is a year after the initial idea was conceived. We are still working on the final steps of publishing this compilation–editing, layout and cover design. We hope that the book will be printed and sent out to readers by the end of the summer (in the northern hemisphere). 

This method sometimes has an unexpected answer to the question posed during a session of prayers and meditation. Instead of a clear “Yes! Go forward!” there is an unequivocal “No!” or a more gentle, “Now is not the time.” Sometimes the answer is a series of roadblocks that get more firm and more challenging as we push toward an intended goal. This is a turbulent and frustrating experience. One question that I have regularly used in prayer and meditation is this: “If I am not supposed to X, what is the right thing that I should be doing instead?” This has enabled me to gain clarity and feel better about redirecting energy into more propitious paths.

Along the path to publishing A Hundred Thousand Hopes, there were some snags and hiccups. The editors needed to make choices about many different things from funding to editing procedures. These were not always the simplest decisions since there are endless good options. However, when we made less-than-optimal choices, the poor results led to new questions and answers. This cycle of learning and iterative decision making was a lesson in humility and adaptability. Things do not always go to plan, but they still can be accomplished in the end. 

Do you use prayer and meditation in similar ways? Or do you have another method that helps you overcome roadblocks? 

There is no shortage of tragedy in the world. Genocides, racism, gender-based violence, the persecution of religious and ethnic minorities—the list is long, and the weight of it can be extremely heavy. For many people, witnessing injustice ignites a burning desire to act, to speak, to demand better. As Baha’is, many of us also feel this desire, but can sometimes feel unsure of how to act, given our non-involvement in partisan politics. 

When I was getting my master’s degree in Public International Law and Human Rights, I came to realise that human rights is much broader than how it’s often discussed. We are not talking about a narrow political agenda. We are talking about the right to clean water, to a healthy environment, to food, to safety, to healthcare; the basic conditions that make a dignified human life possible. And what I noticed is that when you strip away the political noise and focus on the underlying right, you almost always find consensus. Very few people, across very different backgrounds and beliefs, will tell you that children should go hungry, or that communities should drink poisoned water, or that people should die from preventable illness. These rights tend to unite us. It’s the political prescriptions for how to achieve them that divide us, and that is precisely where, as a Baha’i, I have been learning how to tread a different path.

I believe that the Baha’i Writings make clear that advocacy on behalf of the oppressed is not only permitted; it is expected. Abdu’l-Baha writes:

“Therefore strive that your actions day by day may be beautiful prayers. Turn towards God, and seek always to do that which is right and noble. Enrich the poor, raise the fallen, comfort the sorrowful, bring healing to the sick, reassure the fearful, rescue the oppressed, bring hope to the hopeless, shelter the destitute! This is the work of a true Baha’i…”¹

“Rescue the oppressed.” That is not a passive instruction. But it also does not say: tear down the institutions that oppress them and replace them with ones of your choosing. That distinction, between speaking out against injustice and dictating the political means by which justice should be achieved, is where I have come to find my footing.

From what I understand, I can say that a government is failing to protect the rights of its citizens. I can name the abuse, document it, raise it, and demand it be seen. What I cannot do is campaign for the fall of a government or align myself with a particular political faction as the answer. Whether change comes through the reform of existing institutions or through something entirely new is not mine to prescribe. What I believe I am called to do is contribute, right now, to the kind of world we believe in.

A few years ago, when the death of a young woman sparked a global outcry over women’s rights and state violence, I helped organise a local solidarity march in Riga, Latvia, where I was living. We gathered, not under a party banner or a political slogan, but under the simple conviction that women’s lives matter and that governments have an obligation to protect rather than endanger the people they govern. That is a human rights position, not a partisan one. It asks nothing about who should hold power, only that whoever does must be held accountable to basic standards of human dignity.

I have also witnessed quieter, but equally powerful forms of advocacy. About ten years ago, when I was living in the Czech Republic, a refugee crisis was unfolding across Europe. Just across the border in Austria, a group of Afghan families were living in temporary housing while they awaited word on where they would be permanently settled. A few Persian-speaking Baha’is in our community began driving across that border every weekend to offer their time, their warmth, and their fluency in a language close enough to Dari that real conversation was possible. What they gave those families was the chance to share a meal with people who could understand them, to laugh, to play with their children, to feel human in the middle of an experience that could otherwise feel profoundly dehumanising.

Not all advocacy is loud. It can be, and sometimes needs to be. But it is also possible for advocacy to be softer; to be laughter bouncing off the walls of refugee housing, a shared pot of food, or a conversation between hearts. That too is the work of building a more just world.

Baha’u’llah wrote that “all men have been created to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization.”² The statement implies that we are not here simply to patch what is broken, but to participate in the construction of something better. Speaking out about human rights abuses, naming them, documenting them, ensuring they are seen and understood, is part of that civilisational project. We are not merely treating symptoms of a broken world; we are laying foundations for a just one. 

Two remarkable examples of this in action come to my mind. First, Nazila Ghanea, who currently serves as the United Nations Special Rapporteur on Freedom of Religion or Belief. In her role, she is tasked with investigating global violations of religious freedom and advocating for the universal protection of thought, conscience, and religion. Second is Payam Akhavan, a human rights lawyer who, along with decades of other advocacy, served as a legal advisor to the international body prosecuting the people who committed genocide and crimes against humanity during the Yugoslav Wars. Both are Baha’is. Both demonstrate that it is entirely possible to operate with rigour, moral clarity, and real institutional impact while remaining principled rather than partisan. Both show how we can name abuses and hold governments accountable from a place of commitment to universal human rights standards rather than political allegiance. In their work, we see exactly the kind of dual effort the Faith calls us to: addressing present suffering while contributing to something larger and more enduring.

Of course, most of us will never serve as a United Nations Special Rapporteur or argue cases before international tribunals. But human rights advocacy is not reserved for experts. It can begin in our own neighbourhoods and communities. We can volunteer with grassroots organisations whose work resonates with us, whether they support refugees, survivors of domestic violence, people experiencing homelessness, environmental protection, or access to education. We can organise donation drives, collect school supplies, raise funds for humanitarian relief efforts, or offer our professional skills to organisations working on behalf of vulnerable populations. We can create spaces for meaningful conversations, accompany those who feel isolated, mentor young people, and help build communities where every person is treated with dignity and respect. None of these actions require us to align ourselves with a political party or ideology. They simply require us to recognise the humanity in others and respond with service.

The Baha’i Writings do not ask us to be silent in the face of suffering, nor neutral on questions of human dignity. They call us to act: to defend the vulnerable, uplift the oppressed, and help build a society rooted in justice and unity. Whether through advocacy, service, or simple acts of solidarity, each of us can play a role in responding to suffering in a way that brings people together rather than driving them apart. 

1. Abdu’l-Baha, Baha’i Sacred Writings
2. Baha’u’llah, Gleanings of the Writings of Baha’u’llah

Over the last 50 years I have turned up almost every day to my workshop where I design and make furniture to commission. As I look back, I can see an unfolding path of creative discovery and spiritual insights that has sustained, guided and shaped my work.

Craftsmanship is love made visible.

I believe that craftsmanship is the soul expressing its innate desire to create; as such it can be a form of spiritual practice when the intention is motivated for the greater good.

When we think of spiritual practice we might think of prayer and meditation, attending a church, a temple or a mosque – where we leave behind our worldly preoccupations and enter a sanctified space dedicated to the Divine Creator, or what Buddhism refers to as the Uncreated.

“In accordance with the Divine Teachings, the acquisition of sciences and the perfection of arts is considered as acts of worship. If a person engages with all their power in the acquisition of a science or in the perfection of an art, it is as if they have been worshipping God in the churches and temples…”¹

A workshop, to me, has similar characteristics to a temple. It is where I cultivate and curate the conditions that are conducive to the pursuit of developing my craft and to the striving of excellence. I don’t just turn up. Each day is a rededication to my craft– even the journey to my workshop is a liminal experience when I mentally prepare for the day’s tasks. It’s a daily micro-pilgrimage.

The mundane routine of sweeping floors and tidying feels more like an act of purifying my intentions. The very necessary task of sharpening chisels can also seem to sharpen the mind. Yet despite a curated working space the reality of a workshop is that things go wrong and then I face my own limitations!

Learning to recognise my limitations is part of my creative journey and this requires me to learn about myself as well as my craft.

Transformation

The materials I use are an intrinsic part of my creative practice. There are both ethical and spiritual aspects in this regard. The Baha’i Teachings mention the responsibility of the artist and craftsperson to transform the material they use to its highest level of refinement. According to these teachings every natural thing created aspires to its paradise, its Nirvana, and this can be achieved through the artist and craftsperson endeavouring to apply their respective skills and creativity to the utmost of their ability. In our Western economy natural resources are exploited and commodified for profit. A sacred approach could transform our relationship with the environment; we could become stewards not exploiters of our planet. This could also transform ourselves. Baha’u’llah says:

“Every man of discernment, while walking upon the earth, feeleth indeed abashed, inasmuch as he is fully aware that the thing which is the source of his prosperity, his wealth, his might, his exaltation, his advancement and power is, as ordained by God, the very earth which is trodden beneath the feet of all men. There can be no doubt that whoever is cognizant of this truth, is cleansed and sanctified from all pride, arrogance, and vainglory.”²

My creative and spiritual practice have evolved interdependently over many decades. Following the Earth Summit in 1992, I began to source non-commercial timber from local woodlands and convert and dry it at my workshop for my own use. This changed my understanding and relationship with the material I use and where it comes from. I discovered the rich diversity of the timbers, their character and qualities, and the individuality of each tree. Each log has a story and each plank has its own unique character. When I view them in my timber shed, I feel as though they are expectantly waiting for the opportunity to be made into a piece of furniture; I become part of an unfolding interconnected spiritual and physical cyclical process.

“Man is organic with the world. His inner life moulds the environment and is itself also deeply affected by it. The one acts upon the other and every abiding change in the life of man is the result of these mutual reactions.”³

The Middle Way: Commissions

A big part of my creative journey has been learning how to balance being a craftsperson with making an ethical living. I think this is one version of the middle way, the path of moderation. My solution since the late 1970s has been to develop my own “signature” designs, which gradually became the basis for my commissions. Each commission is a variation of one of these designs. Through this approach I am able to follow my creative direction and still charge clients a fair price. I’ve been able to make a modest living since 1975 without compromising my spiritual values of fairness and transparency.  I believe that if we view our practice as a form of spiritual service these problems become surmountable.

“The purpose of learning should be the promotion of the welfare of the people, and this can be achieved through crafts […] the true worth of artists and craftsmen should be appreciated, for they advance the affairs of mankind.”⁴

A Gift

I also believe that the act of making to the best of my ability is its own reward. But it is also, as I’ve suggested, a spiritual-mystical journey of self-discovery. This knowledge is knowledge of the soul. The soul is like a mirror; it will reflect what it is directed at and be informed by that reality. When the soul is directed towards the source of spiritual light it can potentially reflect that light through the lens of the artist or craftsperson, manifesting things according to the skill of the artisan. However, worldly attachment is like dross on the mirror, obscuring the light. The mirror has to be polished before it can manifest beauty to the highest degree. When my intentions are altruistic and my craftsmanship is refined, I feel as though I am offering a gift, a source of betterment and beautification in the world.

“In this Day the sun of craftsmanship shineth above the horizon of the occident and the river of arts is flowing out of the sea of that region.” ⁵

“There will be a new art, a new architecture, fused of all the beauty of the past, but new.”⁶

1. Abdu’l-Baha, Selections from the Writings of Abdu’l-Baha
2. Baha’u’llah, Epistle to the Son of the Wolf
3. Social Action compilation, From a letter dated 17 February 1933 written on behalf of Shoghi Effendi to an individual believer
4. Baha’u’llah, Arts and Crafts compilation
5. Baha’u’llah, Tablets of Baha’u’llah
6. Abdu’l-Baha, Star of the West

Hi friends!!

Here’s our round-up of the previous month!

If you haven’t already, I recommend watching the keynote address at the 2026 conference for the Association for Baha’i Studies for North America. Delivered by member of the Universal House of Justice, Mr Shahriar Razavi, the talk is about serving as a true practitioner of peace, and it contains many reflections and insights on what peace means at all levels. The lecture contains many gems well worth mulling over and revisiting!

In the previous Baha’i month, we also shared a short but sweet animation by Bright Moon Trust, a Baha’i-inspired funding agency focused on First Nations peoples in Northern Australia. The video explores the principle that the welfare of each of us is bound up with the welfare of all.

Moving from peace in the community to inner-peace within the individual, we also promoted two guided meditations led by Roy Steiner, one on the topic of oneness, and the other on hope. I very much appreciate how they draw upon images and quotations from the Baha’i Writings. These meditations have been produced by our sister-channel, Baha’i Inspired, and I encourage you to find a quiet moment to enjoy them. While they are available on YouTube, you can also find them on Spotify.

I am perpetually delighted that Baha’i Blog both makes its own content and highlights the work of others. I believe that mix of voices and perspectives of various creators makes Bahaiblog.net a real treasure trove. And while we typically use our newsletter to unabashedly promote our own videos and audio over those made by others, I really wanted to draw your attention first to Mr. Razavi’s talk, Bright Moon Trust’s recent animation, and the guided meditations.

What we shared in the last month that was made in-house is not as strongly linked to the theme of peace, but I hope you’ll still enjoy them! Tahirih Lemon shared with us about her new children’s book, What Makes Abdu’l-Baha Special, and Naysan chatted with Mateen and Jason about their podcast, Elevated Convo. We released more episodes of the Baha’i Stories Podcast and published fresh Studio Sessions, such as “Radiant Heart” from Edinburgh. Although nothing could be more in-house than a Studio Session where the producer moves from behind the camera to sing in front of it–and to sing a cover, no less! In last week’s release, Jordan sang “Nightingale of Affection”. Roya Bennett composed and performed the original song as a Studio Session almost an entire decade ago. I hope you enjoy both renditions. Without further ado, here’s Jordan Raj:

Wishing you a peaceful month of Izzat!

Love,
Sonjel