I first became aware of it in the early mornings, faint, melodic, unmistakable. The call to prayer drifted through the walls of my riad in Morocco, gentle but insistent, a sound not asking for attention but commanding stillness.
My room was just steps from a mosque, and though I hadn’t grown up with the rhythm of the adhan, it wove itself into my mornings like silk through fingers. In that half-waking state, I felt suspended, between worlds, between time zones, between my familiar and something sacred.
Five times a day, this sound echoed through the medina, reminding the faithful to pause. But I found myself pausing, too. Not because I was Muslim, but because I was human, and something in that sound called me back to myself.
There was no performance in it. No demand. Just devotion. Just presence.
I didn’t always rise. I didn’t always sit in meditation or reach for a journal. But I noticed. I received it. And in those moments, I understood something that no guidebook or historical plaque could have taught me: how spirituality is embedded in daily life for so many people around the world, not as an escape, but as a rhythm. A grounding.
When I left Morocco, I missed it more than I expected. Not because I longed for the specific sound, but because I had come to cherish the invitation to pause. The reminder to return to the center, to something greater, quieter, steady.
Now, when I hear birdsong in the morning or a church bell in a distant square, I smile. Not because it’s the same, but because it’s familiar in its intention.
To wake up.
To remember.
To return.