Nafs Tricks: The Moon Was Never in the Well

Series: The Little Tricks of the Nafs

Post One: The Moon Was Never in the Well

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Series Qur’anic Anchor

وَنَفْسٍۢ وَمَا سَوَّىٰهَا

فَأَلْهَمَهَا فُجُورَهَا وَتَقْوَىٰهَا

قَدْ أَفْلَحَ مَن زَكَّىٰهَا

وَقَدْ خَابَ مَن دَسَّىٰهَا

Wa nafsin wa mā sawwāhā.
Fa-alhamahā fujūrahā wa taqwāhā.
Qad aflaḥa man zakkāhā.
Wa qad khāba man dassāhā.

“By the soul and the One Who fashioned it, and inspired it with its wrong and its right. Successful is the one who purifies it, and failed is the one who corrupts it.”

Sūrat ash-Shams 91:7–10

The Qur’an does not describe the soul as something simple. It is fashioned. It is inspired with the knowledge of its wrong and its right. It can be purified, and it can also be buried beneath its own darkness.

This is why the small tricks of the nafs matter.

Returning to yesterday evening's walk — we were searching for a parking spot while a light drizzle fell, and I told my friend that I would make du'ā', trusting we would find a good space and that the rain would ease so we could enjoy a pleasant stroll. Shortly after, we found a suitable spot, the drizzle ceased, and the moment we set out, the street lamps came on, bathing the path in warm light and making the walk all the more agreeable.
I remarked with some amusement that I had certainly not requisitioned for the lamps to be turned on — that was an unanticipated grace. Yet, even as I said it lightly, I was inwardly mindful that recounting such moments can, if one is not careful, quietly nourish the ego with a sense of personal consequence it does not deserve. It was precisely to guard against that impression — of imagining oneself some privileged intercessor — that I felt it necessary to set the record straight through this series of posts.

The nafs does not always arrive with open evil. Sometimes it comes clothed as cleverness. Sometimes as wounded innocence. Sometimes as religious confidence. Sometimes as a small private sentence we whisper to ourselves:

“I did that.” “I knew that.” “I was right.” “I meant well.”

Because these thoughts are small, we often leave them unexamined. But a small crack can let in much darkness.

Nasrudin stories help us because they make the sickness visible before they make us defensive. We laugh at him first. Then, if Allah grants us honesty, we begin to recognise ourselves.

 

قَالَ إِنَّمَآ أُوتِيتُهُۥ عَلَىٰ عِلْمٍ عِندِىٓ

Qāla innamā ūtītuhū ʿalā ʿilmin ʿindī.

“He said, ‘I was only given this because of knowledge I possess.’”

Sūrat al-Qaṣaṣ 28:78

This was the disease of Qārūn.

He did not say, “Allah gave me.” He did not say, “Allah entrusted me.” He did not say, “Allah is testing me.”

He said, in meaning: I have this because of something in me.

Because of my knowledge. Because of my skill. Because of my effort. Because of my planning. Because of my superiority.

This is one of the oldest diseases of the nafs: to receive from Allah, then write our own name on the gift; to be protected by Allah, then call it our wisdom; to be carried by Allah, then praise our own feet.

Nasrudin becomes useful here because he says the foolish thing aloud. And once it is spoken aloud, we can hear what we often hide inside. 

Nasrudin Restores the Moon

One night, Nasrudin was walking past a well. He looked down and saw the moon reflected in the water.

He was horrified. A terrible calamity has befallen upon mankind.

“The moon has fallen into the well!”

He ran to fetch a rope and hook. He lowered the hook into the well and began pulling with all his strength. The hook caught on a stone. Nasrudin pulled harder. Suddenly it came loose, and he fell flat on his back.

Bruised and breathless, he opened his eyes.

There, above him, was the moon in the sky.

Nasrudin smiled with relief.

“I may have hurt myself,” he said, “but at least I have put the moon back where it belongs.”

This is the nafs.

The heavens did not need Nasrudin’s intervention. Yet because he struggled, fell, and then looked up, he gave himself credit for the order of the world.

How often do we do the same?

A child grows, and the parent says, “Because of me.” A school improves, and the leader says, “Because of me.” A problem passes, and we say, “Because of my strategy.” A relationship heals, and we say, “Because of my wisdom.” A danger never arrives, and we say, “Because I prevented it.”

But the moon was never in the well.

Allah had already placed things where they belonged. We were not the rescuer. We were only the person lying on our back, looking up, misunderstanding mercy.

 

The Tree That Would Not Come

Nasrudin once told his neighbour, “I am a saint. I have special powers.”

The neighbour said, “Then prove it. Command that tree to come here and bow before you.”

Nasrudin stood before the tree.

“O Tree,” he shouted, “come here and bow before me!”

The tree did not move. He waited. Still nothing.

Then Nasrudin walked toward the tree and bowed before it.

“What are you doing?” asked the neighbour.

Nasrudin replied, “Saints like me are modest. If the tree will not come to me, I will go to the tree.”

Here is another trick of the nafs: when its claim fails, it renames the failure.

“I was not wrong. I was humble.” 

“I did not fail. I chose another method.” 

“I did not lose. I was teaching a lesson.” 

“I did not act foolishly. You did not understand the deeper wisdom.”

There is real humility. And there is pride after it has been caught.

Real humility says, “I made a mistake.”

False humility says, “You are too small to understand why it appeared to be a mistake”

This is especially dangerous in religious life. A person may make a claim in the language of spirituality. When the claim is tested and fails, he does not repent. He simply gives the failure a beautiful name.

But truth does not need us to protect our image.

The tree did not move.

That should have been enough.

 

The Centre of the World

A man once challenged Nasrudin.

“If you are so wise,” he said, “tell us where the exact centre of the world is.”

Nasrudin looked thoughtful. Then he pointed to the ground beneath his donkey’s right hind hoof.

“The centre of the world is there.”

The man was annoyed.

“How can you prove that?”

Nasrudin replied, “No. You must prove that I am wrong.”

This is the nafs when it becomes argumentative.

It makes a large claim, then places the burden on everyone else. It does not offer truth. It offers difficulty. It does not say, “Here is my proof.” It says, “Disprove me.”

Some people live like this. They speak with certainty about matters they have not understood. They judge people they do not know. They declare motives they cannot see. They pronounce confidently on religion, education, politics, families, children, and communities.

And when asked for evidence, they move the burden.

“Prove that I am wrong.”

This is not wisdom. It is an ego that has discovered a debating trick.

The Qur’anic heart should be more careful. The believer should fear saying more than he knows. He should fear turning suspicion into certainty. He should fear winning an argument while losing truth.

There are many centres we invent:

the centre of the world, the centre of the family, the centre of the school, the centre of the conversation, the centre of the problem.

And very often, the nafs places that centre beneath its own donkey.

 

The Lantern

Nasrudin once said to a friend, “I can see in the dark.”

His friend laughed.

“But I have seen you walking at night with a lantern.”

Nasrudin replied, “Of course. The lantern is not for me. It is so that other people do not bump into me.”

This is a softer story, but the disease remains.

Even an ordinary lantern becomes a sign of Nasrudin’s importance. He cannot simply say, “I carry it because I need light.” He must turn the lantern into public service. He must make himself the one who saves others from collision.

This happens to us too.

We help once, and begin to see ourselves as generous.
We listen once, and begin to see ourselves as patient.
We correct someone once, and begin to see ourselves as wise.
We do a duty, and begin to feel that the room is in our debt.

The nafs loves to turn ordinary responsibility into a throne.

But perhaps the lantern is only a lantern.

Perhaps I carried it because I needed help.
Perhaps I served because I was meant to serve.
Perhaps I taught because I was entrusted to teach.
Perhaps I gave because Allah first gave me.
Perhaps I was not the light.
Perhaps I only held one.

And even that light was not mine.

 

The One Note on the Lute

Nasrudin once declared, “I can play any instrument.”

A friend handed him a lute.

“Play this.”

Nasrudin took the lute and began to strum one chord.

Again and again.

The same sound.
The same movement.
The same note.

His friend said, “That is not how musicians play. They move their hands along the strings.”

Nasrudin replied, “They are still searching for the right note. I have already found it.”

This is one of the most useful stories for learning.

The ego does not only claim credit for what it did not cause. It also calls its smallness completion.

It takes one note and calls it mastery.
One idea and calls it understanding.
One method and calls it education.
One spiritual practice and calls it the whole path.
One verse, one opinion, one teacher, one success, one wound, and builds a throne upon it.

There is beauty in simplicity. But there is also a laziness that hides behind simplicity.

The one who has truly found a note does not need to despise the musician who is still practising. The one who has truly learnt does not need to make every other learner look lost.

When a person says, “I already know,” the door of learning begins to close.

And when the door closes, the nafs begins to decorate the room.

 

The Qur’anic Mirror

Qārūn said:

“I was only given this because of knowledge I possess.”

It is a terrifying sentence because it is not only about wealth. It can happen with anything.

“I have this school because of my vision.”
“I have these children because of my parenting.”
“I have this success because of my effort.”
“I have this understanding because of my intelligence.”
“I have this respect because of my character.”
“I have this safety because of my caution.”

Of course effort matters. Planning matters. Skill matters. Discipline matters. Knowledge matters.

Islam does not teach passivity.

But it teaches us to know the source.

The farmer plants, but he does not create the seed. He waters, but he does not command the rain. He works the soil, but he does not write life into the earth.

So when he sees the harvest, he should not say, “This is because of me.”

He should say:

Alḥamdulillāh.

That one word protects the soul.

Alḥamdulillāh — not because I restored the moon.
Alḥamdulillāh — not because I moved the tree.
Alḥamdulillāh — not because I found the centre of the world.
Alḥamdulillāh — not because I see in the dark.
Alḥamdulillāh — not because I alone found the note.

Alḥamdulillāh because Allah gave.
Alḥamdulillāh because Allah protected.
Alḥamdulillāh because Allah covered.
Alḥamdulillāh because Allah taught.
Alḥamdulillāh because Allah allowed.

Alḥamdulillāh because Allah placed the moon in the sky long before I arrived with my rope.

 

Where This Appears in Us

These stories are not only about Nasrudin.

They are about the parent who thinks every good quality in the child came from his parenting, while every weakness came from outside.

They are about the teacher who thinks every child’s growth proves his skill, while every struggle proves the child’s defect.

They are about the leader who thinks the community stands because of him.

They are about the donor who thinks the poor are saved by his generosity.

They are about the religious person who thinks Allah’s religion needs his anger to survive.

They are about the student who learns one thing and begins to look down on those who know less.

They are about the person who receives one gift and quietly begins to think he is the giver.

This is why Allah says elsewhere:

لِّكَيْلَا تَأْسَوْا۟ عَلَىٰ مَا فَاتَكُمْ وَلَا تَفْرَحُوا۟ بِمَآ ءَاتَىٰكُمْ ۗ وَٱللَّهُ لَا يُحِبُّ كُلَّ مُخْتَالٍۢ فَخُورٍ

“So that you neither grieve over what has escaped you, nor boast over what He has given you. And Allah does not love anyone arrogant and boastful.”

Sūrat al-Ḥadīd 57:23

“What He has given you.”

That is the phrase.

Not what you created.
Not what you own absolutely.
Not what proves your greatness.

What He has given you.

The gift should make us grateful, not swollen.

 

Closing Reflection

There is a kind of self-importance that is loud. It boasts openly. It demands praise. It wants to be seen.

But there is another kind that is quieter. It hides inside the heart. It takes credit silently. It enjoys being needed. It enjoys being right. It enjoys being the rescuer. It enjoys being the one who knows. It enjoys being the one who has “already found the note.”

This is the little trick of the nafs.

It does not always ask us to deny Allah with our tongues. It only asks us to forget Him in our explanations.

So we must keep returning to the truth.

The moon was not in the well.
The tree did not come.
The donkey’s hoof is not the centre of the world.
The lantern was needed.
One note is not mastery.
And I am not the source.

May Allah protect us from the hidden pride that survives even inside religious language.

May He save us from claiming credit for what He has arranged.

May He make us people who work hard without worshipping our work; people who serve without turning service into a throne; people who learn without turning knowledge into self-importance.

And may He make us people who say Alḥamdulillāh before the nafs can say, “Because of me.”

Āmīn.

 

Source Note

These are teaching stories from the Sufi and Islamic wisdom tradition and should be shared as adab stories, not as hadith, unless a clear Qur’anic or hadith source is provided. Nasrudin stories often work through humour: the joke opens the door, but the lesson is deeper than the joke.