Meditation Under the Moon

Chapter Four: Meditation Under the Moon

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I remember that night like a secret only the wind and I knew. The moon was full, bathing everything in a soft silver that made the world feel still, like it was holding its breath just for me. I had wandered into the quiet, tired of carrying the weight of words left unsaid, of rooms filled with noise but void of understanding. People say I’m too quiet. That I don’t speak enough. That I don’t know how to communicate. But what they don’t understand is this: silence is my first language. And in that language, I have had the deepest conversations with the stars, the wind, my own soul, and most sacredly, the Creator.

That night, under the willow tree, I wasn’t looking for some spiritual breakthrough. I wasn’t trying to be deep. I was just worn out. Worn thin from life stretching me past my own emotional stitching. My heart was frayed, my spirit weathered. But I was still breathing. And sometimes, breath is the only prayer you’ve got left in you. So I sat. I didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t speak. I just was.

And that’s when I felt it.

That stillness. That peace. That subtle nudge in my chest. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t bright like lightning. It was soft. Like my grandmother’s voice when I was a child and she’d call my name in the kitchen, telling me, “Baby, sometimes you gotta hush to hear heaven.”

She was right.

Underneath that willow, with the moon bearing witness, heaven whispered. Not in sentences, but in feelings. In truth that moved through me like warm water, cleansing the heavy places I’d tucked my grief. And I realized something then something I hope never leaves me: the Creator speaks loudest in silence. You just gotta be willing to listen with more than your ears.

My grandmother always said, “Don’t be fooled by how loud folks are. Noise ain’t wisdom. Still waters run deep, and baby, your quiet is holy ground.” She saw something in me back then that I’m only just beginning to understand. She didn’t care that I wasn’t the loudest. She didn’t expect me to perform like others. She knew that my depth was in my stillness. That my presence carried peace. That my silence was sacred.

It was her who taught me about the Creator’s real currency. She’d say, “God don’t care about your fine clothes or what you drive. He don’t care how many folks clap for you or how many likes you get. He’s lookin’ at your heart, not your highlight reel.”

She didn’t need scripture to explain it she lived it. Her prayers were quiet, like the hush of wind through trees. But they carried weight. They carried me. Many times, I’ve walked through fires with no burns because her prayers were my covering.

And that willow tree… it became more than a tree that night. It was an altar. A sanctuary. And I wept. Not because I was broken, but because I was being made whole. Piece by piece, tear by tear. The moon watched. The stars hummed. And I knew then I wasn’t alone. I never had been.

There’s something wild and beautiful about the night. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t rush you. It gives you space to unravel, to unfold. And in that sacred unraveling, you meet your truest self. Not the one the world tells you to be. But the one who’s been aching to be seen. Heard. Held.

I thought of Alexander the Great that night too how even he, with all his riches, all his glory, realized too late what truly mattered. On his deathbed, he made three final wishes: for his physicians to carry his coffin, for his wealth to be scattered along the way, and for his hands to dangle outside his casket, empty. To show the world he came in with nothing, and would leave the same.

All the perfumes in the world can’t cover a rotten soul. The Creator doesn’t care how well you dress or how far you’ve traveled. He’s not impressed by titles or treasure. He looks at your spirit. Your intention. Your compassion. Your stillness. Your realness. Your broken hallelujahs.

That moment under the moon taught me that meditation isn’t about becoming more spiritual. It’s about becoming more you. Stripped down. Bare. Honest. It’s where the masks fall off. It’s where pain is acknowledged, not ignored. Where the ego gets quiet, and your essence gets loud.

Meditation isn’t some fancy ritual. It’s the space between heartbeats where you realize your breath is borrowed. It’s the moment you look up and realize, “I’m still here. And that has to mean something.”

The world’s gonna keep spinning. People will keep misunderstanding you. Some will overlook you. Others will try to define you. But when you sit in silence really sit you begin to hear the truth: you are enough just as you are.

I’ve carried that truth ever since. I carry it into rooms where I feel unseen. Into conversations where I feel misunderstood. Into days where I feel like I don’t belong. And I carry it with the dignity of knowing the Creator crafted me with care. That my quiet is not a flaw. It’s a design. A sanctuary in a noisy world.

So to the one reading this, maybe sitting with your own weariness, wondering if anyone truly sees you know this: The Creator does. He sees past your clothes, your status, your curated posts. He sees your ache. Your hunger to be known. And He whispers, “I’m here. I never left. You’re still mine.”

You don’t need a temple to touch the divine. Sometimes all you need is a quiet night, an open sky, and the courage to listen to what your soul’s been trying to tell you all along.

And if ever you feel lost, like your voice is too soft, or your heart is too heavy, find a tree. Find a moon. Sit down. Breathe. And let the stillness speak.

Your story isn’t over. Your silence is not your weakness. And your heart it’s still a lighthouse in the storm.

I know, because I’ve been there too.

And I made it back.