For many Muslims living in the West, prayer is often contained within homes or mosques, enclosed by four walls. There is stillness in those spaces, a quiet intimacy with Allah. But there is a different kind of joy, a different kind of surrender, that emerges when prayer extends into nature.
Recently during this past Ramadan, I promised myself I’d face my anxieties and begin praying more openly, especially in places surrounded by the natural world. It is particularly difficult to do that as a woman; but when I do, I notice everything. The sound of the birds flying overhead. The warmth of the sunlight resting on my back. The cool ground meeting my forehead. The firmness of my legs grounding me where I stand.
This is when I thought of the Red Rock Canyon near my home in Las Vegas. Due to fasting for Ramadan and low energy levels, it felt logical to visit the nearest place of geological marvel. The dramatic, towering red Aztec sandstone peaks created an otherworldly environment, invoking a sense of spirituality and wonder within me.
Historically, the area used to be the homeland for the indigenous Nuwu (Southern Paiute) people, which is why multiple petroglyphs and pictographs are still found in the region, with links to their ancestors. This site has been a space for traditional and cultural rituals since times immemorial.
The unique desert landscape with 180-190 million years old rock formations, from as early as the Jurassic time, encouraged mindfulness and a deeper connection to the Earth.
Such moments remind us that we are not separate from creation. We are a part of it. And just as the branches on a tree sway, the birds migrate and the sun rises, so do we exist within that same divine rhythm.
When I entered Red Rock Canyon, I was determined to find a place high enough to pray where I could see the sunset. As I hiked in search of the perfect place, I thought about the significance of mountains in Islam: how they have been places of reflection and revelation. The Quran was first revealed in the Cave of Hira on Jabal al-Nour, overlooking Mecca, and here I was, on a different mountain, in a different part of the world, putting those teachings into practice. It felt like a quiet mirroring, finding a moment of stillness on a mountain of my own.
After breaking my fast, I prepared for the prayer. I removed my shoes and felt the cold rocky mountain underneath me. I expected the surface to be slippery as the mountain looked smooth but I stood firm.
Then I kneeled down to pray.
At that moment, it felt like I was grounded and part of the Earth, as if the Earth itself was holding me up. The breeze gently brushed on my hijab as I knelt in prayer, which felt like a quiet pull, as if the Earth knew I was about to prostrate and was guiding me to it.
But it is not until entering sujood, the position in prayer where the forehead meets the ground in full prostration, that everything shifts.
The world goes quiet. Truly quiet. Everything I had just noticed in nature falls away.
In that position, I repeat “Subhana Rabbiyal A’la,” meaning “Glory be to my Lord, the Most High,” three times. As I rise, the sounds return with me, almost like a rhythm.
In Islam, sujood is understood as the closest a person comes to Allah while on Earth. It is the moment to ask, to whisper your greatest wishes. Because of how my senses fall away, even when in nature, I have come closer to that belief.
At that moment I felt as if I wasn’t just praying within creation. I was praying with it.