#43: The Proper Order of the Self

How the soul, the nafs, and desire must be realigned not through philosophy, but through revelation, regimen, and the example of the Prophet ﷺ.

Assalāmu ʿalaykum wa raḥmatullāhi wa barakātuh.

Bismillāh.

I stumbled upon a beautiful discourse here, one that spoke not just to the mind but to the marrow. It was

Mobin I.

’s reflection on the soul, on Jihād, and on the inner architecture we all carry.

You may have seen me speak elsewhere about how the first wound is always through language. It severs before it heals. Back in Entry 155 of Ledger to Loom on r3genesis, I tried to map the entire architecture of control, how systems fragment us, reshape our seeing, dictate the terms of freedom, and our lives.

From there, I began opening what I called the Language Scroll, a quieter work, slower in rhythm, meant to trace how our tongues have been taken hostage, and how words can become either veils or vessels.

I’ve been away from it for some time. Life has been demanding, and this past month has pulled me far from the thread. Likely the next will too. But, in shā’ Allāh, I will return to it come August. That’s a promise to myself and to whoever may be waiting.

But stumbling on Mobin’s post reminded me, the journey inward doesn’t wait for schedules. Sometimes another’s clarity opens a door we forgot was even there. And so I offer this reflection, not as an addition, but as a companion, a personal reply from where I stand now. I mention all this now to bring home the point, the first wound is always the language, and unless we take back the language to saying what we see and naming what we mean, all else is manipulation or performance. Truth becomes theatre, and sincerity is left gasping beneath a vocabulary meant to impress, not to clarify.

So here is my reply or rather,
my unfolding… in response to Mobin’s piece.

Not a commentary,
not a critique.
A continuation.

In three movements.

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I. The Dog, the Rider, and the Steed

At the root of it, we are three as Imam Ghazali, noted in Ihya, and I am explaining it in my own words.

Not in metaphysical multiplicity, but in function. The soul. the Rūḥ — is the rider. Sent from above, it yearns to return. It remembers what we’ve forgotten. It pulls us toward light, even when we resist.

But it doesn’t ride alone. Beneath it is the Nafs (the self) — not evil, just animal. It is the body and instinct, capable of carrying the soul across terrain, but only when guided. Let it loose, and it strays. Rein it in, and it serves.

Trailing alongside is Hawā (desire). Ghazālī called it the dog, and rightly so. It sniffs, it hungers, it barks. But even the dog has purpose. It warns. It scouts. It can protect. But not lead.

And the tragedy of most souls is simple — the dog starts barking orders, the steed listens, and the rider is dragged behind, barely holding on.

So the work is this:
The rider commands.
The steed obeys.
The dog serves.

This is the beginning of jihad, the reordering of command.

I use a test for myself. When I act, I ask:
Why did I do it?

This message you’re reading, why did I write it?
Because I wanted to respond. Yes.
Because I want it to be read? Also yes.
Because there’s a part of me that wants to be admired? I admit it. The dog is barking.

But then I also hear a quieter voice, the rider’s whisper:
“Say it plainly. Someone out there is choking on polished words and just needs water.”

So I write. Not because I’m clean.
But because I know where I’m bleeding.
And I’d rather speak from the wound than build castles over it.

And in the process, sometimes the dog will win, sometimes the steed, but does the work stop …

should we stop praying, because our prayer is Riya, or worse, a dead habit or should we keep bringing us to the regimen that fixes it …

II. The Regimen: Revelation as Daily Rhythm

The early revelations didn’t come to impress. They came to train. One by one, they laid down a rhythm, a regimen for the soul.

First came “Iqra’” (Surah Alaq) — Read. Read in the name of your Lord who created. Before anything else, fill yourself with what’s true. Not what you feel. Not what the world says. Start with His words, not yours. If you begin your day with your own voice, you’ll end up serving your own ego. Reading is how the rider wakes up.

Then came “Qum al-Layl” (Surah Al-Muzammil) — Stand the night. This isn’t about long hours or dramatic tears. It’s about returning. In the stillness, when no one sees you, you let the dirt fall off. You lower the voice of the ego and remind the heart who it belongs to. This is where the steed is tamed. This is where the dog learns silence.

Then came “Qum fa-anzir” (Surah Al-Mudathir) — Rise and warn. This is the outward life. Speak, act, confront. But only after the first two. Otherwise, your action will carry your ego, not your rūḥ. You’ll call it justice, but it’ll be self-defense. You’ll burn, but with the wrong fire.

That’s the order: Read, Return, Rise.
Skip one, and the whole structure tilts.

Some people only read, they become proud.
Some only pray, they become isolated.
Some only act and there hearts grow hard.

But the Prophet ﷺ was taught all three, and in that rhythm is safety.

In my own life, whenever I return to this rhythm, when I start my day with Qur’an, stand some part of the night, and strive with what I’ve been given, I become the most aware of my shortcomings, the most aware of the task at hand. And I am more complete in my obligations to Allah and to the people around me.

III. The Example of The Prophet’s ﷺ Balance

And then there is the one who lived this rhythm fully. The Prophet ﷺ didn’t just preach the path, he walked it. Not in fragments, but in full. He was not an abstract being. He was a man who prayed in the dead of night, who stood until his feet swelled, who led armies, who married, who ate meat, who smiled, who wept. He carried the Qur’an not only on his tongue but in his limbs. He was among the people, not above them.

He ﷺ said,

“Three things have been made beloved to me from your world: women, perfume, and the coolness of my eyes is in the prayer.”

It’s a hadith that many love to quote, but few stop to really understand. This wasn’t indulgence, this was alignment. He acknowledged desire, but it didn’t lead him. He loved beauty, but it didn’t own him. He had wives, children, fragrance, food. He didn’t shun the world, he placed it in its proper place. And what was at the center? What was the qurratu ʿayn, the coolness of the eye? Not woman, not wealth, not rest. It was prayer.

He rode the steed. He kept the dog. But the rider never let go of the reins.

This is the balance. Not erasure. Not detachment. Not tyranny. Just a structure that held the fire and the fragrance, the sword and the tears, and all of it turned toward the One who sent him.

He ﷺ was not just a Messenger in creed. He was the complete embodiment of how to walk the tension between soul and self, between struggle and surrender, between dunya and akhirah. The regimen we spoke of, he lived it. Every single day. And in that rhythm, there was both force and softness, both justice and gentleness. He was a flame by day and a servant by night. And all of it was worship.

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And in a way, all of this ties back to what I wrote earlier in #41: Where Did the Compass Go? That wasn’t just about collapse. It was about the meaning of life itself and how the Qur’an answers the questions that modern philosophy left hollow. Why we’re here. What we were made for. What it means to live as a trustee, not an accident. But if that post laid out the map, this one deals with the condition of the traveler.

Because you can’t recover the ummah if the self remains scattered.
You can’t reclaim the compass if the hand holding it is trembling.
And you can’t live the amanah if the rider is asleep, the steed is lost, and the dog is in charge.

This, this rhythm of alignment, return, striving, is the philosophy of life for a Muslim who sees clearly again. Not one chasing legacy, but one living amanah. As example. As proof.

My desire, if I’m being honest, is to make things easier.
To say what I see.
To name what I mean.
Not to hide behind polished terms or pretend that using big words brings us closer to the truth. It doesn’t. It usually just puts distance between the speaker and the listener. Between the heart and the ear.

This is my answer to the language of philosophy that ties itself in knots. The Companions of the Prophet ﷺ were simple men. They were sharp, yes. But they were practical. They spoke with clarity. They didn’t speak to impress. They spoke to be understood.

We, and I include myself, often like to sound like scholars. But inside, we’re hollow. And that hollowness is not cured by stacking more vocabulary on top of it. If anything, that makes it worse. So I write this while I rot. Not because I’m above the rot, but because I’m in it. And I’d rather light a match while sitting in the dark than write about the sun I haven’t seen. If this helped you see something more clearly, alhamdulillah. If not, maybe it was just for me.

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