By Marie-Dominique Rail

February 15, 2021

“He who knows himself, knows his Lord.” – Prophet Muhammad 

In the primordial path of Sufism, the heart is more than a physical organ—it is the throne upon which the Divine resides. The journey of the seeker, the salik, is not outward but inward: toward awareness, presence, and ultimately, union with the Beloved. But how can one approach such nearness without first honoring their own inner landscape?

To hold space for yourself is to engage in a sacred act of presence—a tender communion with all that lives within you: your joys and wounds, your shadows and your light. It is an expression of deep self-compassion, mirroring the Divine’s mercy (rahma) and boundless patience.

In Sufism, to hold space is to embody Adab—spiritual courtesy—not just toward others, but toward your own soul. It means allowing your inner world to unfold without judgment, sitting with whatever arises in full presence. Like a Dervish who spins not to escape, but to center, you too can learn to anchor yourself in stillness. Just as the murshid (spiritual guide) holds gentle space for the seeker’s unfolding, you must become a compassionate witness to your own becoming.

Begin simply. Sit in silence. Observe the terrain within. What emotions surface? What thoughts drift by like passing clouds? The practice of muraqabah teaches that healing is not about fixing, but about seeing. To watch without grasping, to breathe without resisting—this is to honor your soul’s sacred rhythm. Let the heart speak. Let the pain rise and fall. You do not need to repair what is holy in its unfolding.

In Sufi tradition, contemplation is not dry reasoning but reflection rooted in the heart. When overwhelmed, resist the urge to flee into distraction. Instead, gently ask: What is this moment asking of me? Every inner state carries a teaching. Anger may be fire purifying old wounds. Sadness, rain that nourishes a thirsty soul. Greet your emotions as honored guests at a sama’—each one bearing a message from the Beloved.

To serve your soul is not to indulge the ego, but to nurture the spirit. As Rumi reminds us, “Be like a tree and let the dead leaves drop.” This means making space for rest, for stillness, for sacred solitude (khalwa). It means recognizing that emptiness, too, is fertile—sometimes the very cradle of Divine grace. To hold space for yourself is an act of zikr—remembrance through love.

It is to reclaim your spiritual sovereignty. You are not your pain. You are not your past. You are the breath of the Divine, walking. When the world urges you to rush, choose stillness.