A search for Sisterhood and Sacred Wisdom

 There are dreams that come like whispers, soft and symbolic. And then there are those that arrive with weight, with presence, with messages wrapped in discomfort. This one unsettled me—not for its strangeness, but for what it stirred in my spirit.

In my dream, I saw a Muslim woman—her presence serene, her demeanor modest. I saw her and felt drawn. Not to her outward image alone, but to what she seemed to represent: a chance at sacred friendship, a guide in faith, someone I could learn from and walk with.

She approached me and spoke not of God, not of prayer, but of her desire to visit a man and make love to prove her love to him. Then, unexpectedly, she turned to me and asked for my opinion. I began to speak gently, “You see, I have ...” I barely began, when she silenced me with a kiss.

It wasn’t a kiss of affection—it was a kiss of interruption. Her lips were covered in painful pimples, full of pus, and as she pulled away, some of it was left on mine. I stood frozen. She told me she didn’t want to hear what I was about to say, because she already knew it would challenge her.

I wasn’t angry. I chased her—not for love or approval—but because I still wanted to learn from her. To understand her path, perhaps to find sisterhood in her. But the next time I saw her, she was among friends. And though my heart still reached out, I turned away. I ignored her. And only then did she come after me.

This dream left something raw in me. A reminder that not all who wear veils carry truth. Not all who speak of love act in purity. Not all who appear devout carry the light of devotion. There are forces—even in sacred disguise—that seek to silence the truth we carry.

Still, I honor the longing I felt in that dream—the longing to learn, to be held in honest spiritual companionship. But now, I understand more clearly: sacred friendship cannot be forced. Wisdom cannot be received from a mouth that wounds. And my truth must not be swallowed for the comfort of another.

Sometimes the teacher is not the one who stands before you, but the one who stirs a deeper knowing within you. And in that knowing, I am reminded: not every path is mine to follow, not every hand is mine to hold, and not every kiss is born of love.