Beneath the sky so still, so wide,A crescent marks the turning tide.No roaring crowds, no grand parade,Just silent steps the brave once made.The Prophet ﷺ walked through the desert night,With only faith to be his light.He left behind the world he knew,To start again, sincere and true.This is no tale of crowns or kings,But of the heart and sacred things—Of leaving fear, embracing grace,And seeking God in every place.So let this year begin with prayer,With humbled hearts and souls laid bare.From self to service, wrong to right,Let Hijrah be our guiding light.Among the many remarkable episodes in the life of the Prophet ﷺ, there is a story that speaks not only of miraculous abundance but also of trust beyond calculation. It is the story of the pot that never ran dry.One day, the Prophet ﷺ called Abu Hurairah, radhiyallahu 'anhu, and instructed him to gather the poor among the Muhajirin—those who had left everything behind in Makkah to migrate to Madinah. When they arrived, the Prophet ﷺ invited them to eat from a vessel that, by all appearances, contained only a modest amount of food. Yet as one group after another came and ate their fill, the food did not diminish. It seemed to flow without end.Then came the Prophet’s gentle yet profound instruction to Abu Hurairah: “Do not lift the lid, and do not measure what is inside.” It was not just a logistical instruction—it was a spiritual directive. The moment one seeks to count, to quantify, to scrutinise, the barakah—divine blessing—withdraws. This was a lesson in faith: provision is not always about visible quantity but about unseen grace.The pot continued to feed people not only during the lifetime of the Prophet ﷺ, but also throughout the caliphates of Abu Bakr and Umar, and well into the early years of Uthman’s rule. This was not magic in the sensational sense. It was the miracle of barakah, of divine increase that flows when we approach sustenance with humility, restraint, and trust.This story reminds us that in times of uncertainty—be it economic, environmental, or emotional—the real abundance may lie not in hoarding or controlling, but in trusting, sharing, and refraining from peering too hard into what we think we control. After all, faith sometimes begins with not lifting the lid.This was not a lesson in kitchen management. It was a lesson in tawakkul.
Tawakkul is not passive surrender. It is the brave art of walking forward without knowing where the path will end, but knowing Who guides it. It is trusting that the unseen is not empty, and that what is veiled from us is not forgotten by God. The Prophet’s instruction—to refrain from lifting the lid—was not about the food. It was about our urge to control, to calculate, to mistrust. True reliance is the ability to say: I don’t see it, but I trust it.
In both Stoicism and Islam, one finds a remarkably resonant principle: the idea that human beings should focus only on what lies within their control. The Stoics, particularly Epictetus, Seneca, and Marcus Aurelius, maintained that the path to inner peace lies in recognising the boundaries between what we can and cannot govern. For them, one’s judgments, choices, and reactions fall within one’s command, while external events—be they fortune, fame, death, or the opinions of others—must be met with calm acceptance.In Islam, a comparable notion appears in the concept of tawakkul, which is often misunderstood as passive surrender. In truth, tawakkul is the culmination of active effort and spiritual trust. The Prophet ﷺ famously taught, “Tie your camel, and then place your trust in God.” This vivid metaphor encapsulates the Islamic ethic: one must first exert every effort, and only then repose full reliance upon the will of Allah. The result of any action, ultimately, is not within the servant’s control—but in the wisdom and mercy of the Creator.While both Stoicism and Islam teach detachment from the outcome, the motivations and metaphysical foundations differ. The Stoics approach detachment through reason and a desire for tranquillity; they seek to remain undisturbed by fate through disciplined thought. Islam, by contrast, orients this detachment through faith in God’s providence. The Muslim accepts the outcome not merely with composure but with rida—a heart content with whatever God decrees, trusting that even disappointment may carry unseen blessings.Thus, while the Stoic trusts in reason and self-mastery, the Muslim trusts in divine wisdom and compassionate decree. Both paths encourage serenity, but one turns inward to the self, while the other turns upward to the Sustainer of the universe.As the crescent of Muharram quietly graces the sky and ushers in the Islamic year 1447, we are reminded that new beginnings in Islam are not made of fireworks and noise, but of intention, remembrance, and the sacred art of trust. In this spirit, the story of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ and the ever-flowing pot becomes a profound metaphor for how we ought to begin this new Hijri year.The start of a new Hijri year is our own opportunity to approach life like that pot: not by measuring how much we have or don't have, but by asking how we trust, how we share, and how we walk into uncertainty with the calm confidence that what Allah provides, when approached with sincerity, will be enough.In a world obsessed with certainty, this year invites us to walk gently with trust. We may not know what 1447 will hold—wars may continue, poverty may persist, leaders may fail us, and the planet may keep bleeding. But the story of the pot reminds us that barakah is not in what we hoard or analyse, but in how we believe, how we serve, and how we refrain from “lifting the lid” on things that belong to the unseen.As we step into this new Hijri year, let us carry the lesson of that blessed pot. Let us begin the year not by asking “how much” or “how long,” but by asking “how sincere” and “how trusting.” That might just be the only measure that truly matters.As we enter 1447 Hijri, many of us bring questions that have no easy answers. Will the wars cease? Will justice prevail? Will our lives become gentler, our leaders wiser, our world more whole? The truth is—we do not know. But we are not required to know. We are only required to move, to serve, and to trust.
In a world obsessed with prediction and control, Hijrah invites us back to the sacred rhythm of surrender. It reminds us that Allah’s provision is not bound by our spreadsheets, and His timing does not follow our clocks.
This year, let us begin not with fear, but with tawakkul. Let us cover the pot, resist the urge to measure, and allow the barakah to flow in ways we cannot imagine. Let us give even when we feel empty. Let us act even when results are uncertain. And let us remember that reliance upon Allah is not the last resort—it is the first and finest step.
May 1447 Hijri be a year where our hearts rest not in certainty, but in trust. The moment we stop counting and start believing. Something that we don’t see becomes the source of our strength. And where the lid we don’t lift becomes the door to abundance we never thought possible. And Allah knows best.
