These Lovely, Lovely People Are Excellent Support. The Facebook Group Has Given Me So Much In Terms Of

These lovely, lovely people are excellent support. The Facebook group has given me so much in terms of resources and community interaction. I submitted a few things to their work-in-progress guide! Here's hoping they like really long prayers and poetry.

Interview: Temple of Sumer

[Today, we sit down for a quick interview with Sam Jackson and Steffy Vonscott of the Temple of Sumer. The organization, dedicated to reviving the polytheistic traditions of ancient Mesopotamia, is in the process of putting together a guide for the curious and new practitioners. Here, they discuss their devotion to their tradition and Gods, common misconceptions about Sumer, and what they are looking for in terms of submissions.]

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Praise be to the Lady who gladdens the heart, am I right?

A Hymn to Ninkasi (goddess of beer)

1-4 Given birth by the flowing water ……, tenderly cared for by Ninhursaja! Ninkasi, given birth by the flowing water ……, tenderly cared for by Ninhursaja!

5-8 Having founded your town upon wax, she completed its great walls for you. Ninkasi, having founded your town upon wax, she completed its great walls for you.

9-12 Your father is Enki, the lord Nudimmud, and your mother is Ninti, the queen of the abzu. Ninkasi, your father is Enki, the lord Nudimmud, and your mother is Ninti, the queen of the abzu.

13-16 It is you who handle the …… and dough with a big shovel, mixing, in a pit, the beerbread with sweet aromatics. Ninkasi, it is you who handle the …… and dough with a big shovel, mixing, in a pit, the beerbread with sweet aromatics.

17-20 It is you who bake the beerbread in the big oven, and put in order the piles of hulled grain. Ninkasi, it is you who bake the beerbread in the big oven, and put in order the piles of hulled grain.

21-24 It is you who water the earth-covered malt; the noble dogs guard it even from the potentates (?). Ninkasi, it is you who water the earth-covered malt; the noble dogs guard it even from the potentates (?).

25-28 It is you who soak the malt in a jar; the waves rise, the waves fall. Ninkasi, it is you who soak the malt in a jar; the waves rise, the waves fall.

29-32 It is you who spread the cooked mash on large reed mats; coolness overcomes ……. Ninkasi, it is you who spread the cooked mash on large reed mats; coolness overcomes …….

33-36 It is you who hold with both hands the great sweetwort, brewing it with honey and wine. Ninkasi, it is you who hold with both hands the great sweetwort, brewing it with honey and wine.

37-40 1 line damaged You …… the sweetwort to the vessel. Ninkasi, ……. You …… the sweetwort to the vessel.

41-44 You place the fermenting vat, which makes a pleasant sound, appropriately on top of a large collector vat. Ninkasi, you place the fermenting vat, which makes a pleasant sound, appropriately on top of a large collector vat.

45-48 It is you who pour out the filtered beer of the collector vat; it is like the onrush of the Tigris and the Euphrates. Ninkasi, it is you who pour out the filtered beer of the collector vat; it is like the onrush of the Tigris and the Euphrates.

This post is mostly an excuse to figure out how to tag, partially an excuse to put more content on my blog, and definitely an excuse to talk about my gods. So. My gods! My main go-tos are: Nisaba, the light of my life and lady of my home, Goddess of Scribes, Barley, and the Written Word. (I'm giving you the cliffnotes version rather than the polytheist rant, so. That's a good summary.) Nuska, god of the lamp at night. His job is to burn evil magic, generally. Protector god who fights off demons, his symbol is seen on the Pazuzu plaque in position to defend a bedside from the horrible demon Lamashtu, who is never welcome near me or my family. I go to him a lot concerning anxiety and nightmares. In addition to them, I go to: Ereshkigal, Utu, Enki, Inanna, Ninhursag, Gula, and Nanshe with relative frequency. I pay respects to Tiamat, but she's technically not Sumerian, very dead, and the story is complicated. Ereshkigal- queen of the House of Dust Utu- god of the sun, laws, travel, divination, protects against gidim, sometimes judges the dead Enki- god of fresh water, purification, magic, creativity, wisdom, fertility, creator of mankind who organized the world Inanna- goddess of passion, sex, war, lady who changes man into woman and woman into man Ninhursag- wife of Enki, mother goddess, lady of the cultivated earth Gula- goddess of medicine in all forms, dogs Nanshe- goddess of social justice, fishermen, dream divination On occasion I say a word or two for Nanna, the god of the moon, and Uttu, the goddess of weaving and the first married woman. I pay respect to a lot of gods as they are relevant, to be honest, but I never let a day go by without saying something to Nisaba.

Oh Death

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXpnI52cLEc

She saunters in, bloody axe dragging on the ground.

No mercy, no quarter.

Justice will triumph.

My Lady Nisaba, fair woman who dwells in the tablet stacks, I pray for your kindly eye upon the libraries, and your kindly hand upon the bookstores. Yellowed paper, quiet dust, and warm wood are going the way of the dodo bird, and my heart grieves for the fading sanctuaries. Maybe I'm old fashioned. But, Nisaba of Wisdom, you have more claim to that title than this scribe, don't you? You were there when messengers first set reed to wax, you were there when the farmers first recorded grain sales. You were there in the forge when letters were first embossed on metal, and you were there when the brilliance of paper and ink was first noted. The written word has spread far and through many mediums. Now is the time of graffiti and concrete, font and pixels. My Lady Nisaba who is Nanibgal, good woman with the silver reed in her hand who knows the beauty of the stylus pressed against tablet: time passes, but may the appreciation of the written word echo eternally, through evolution and revolution. My Lady Nisaba colored like the stars, it is sweet to praise you. May your name resound on the lips of the black-headed ones forever and ever.

Polytheist Ramblings: Ninhursag

Most of my life has been spent in Kansas. Not eastern Kansas, where you get the illusion of that magical thing people call "hills". Where the river gnaws at the border and the lawns are lush with greenery. I'm talking about sundried spittoon Kansas, metal whirligigs and fields that surge like a golden sea beneath the wild, hair-tossing wind. The wind in the city, in the mountains? A declawed little puff compared to the fluid onrushing of a wall of pure force as vast as the sky itself. The sky is searing, the windbreaks bent like regal courtiers beneath it, rare cloud shadows scudding across the landscape. It's beautiful. Most people don't really see that. Don't even get me started on the flash floods.

So yes, I was raised in the pancake state. I vaguely recall something Nightvale related.... something about not believing in mountains? Eh. Point being, the long drive to New Mexico, or Colorado, was always exciting. Cars, to me, were always a bit like teleporters. You get in, wait a bit, and then suddenly you're waking up at the destination. My dad's philosophy tapes might have been partially to blame, until I started actually listening. But one thing that always wound me up and had my face pressed to the glass was that first glimpse of a purple smudge on the horizon. I definitely believed in mountains. Just like I believed in unicorns. There's something absolutely magical about watching the earth lazily rear up to wrap itself in clouds as easily as my mother could tie her fancy, billowing scarves. There were huge scars in the land where people had dug into the rock to build roads, crumbling bits of ruddy sandstone and white gypsum like gleaming bones. It was like seeing that biblical flood frozen in time all around me, terrifying, but I was too distracted by the newness and the beauty to be scared. I'm the sort to ogle mesas, okay? Mountains are serious business worth waxing poetic over.

Now I live in the Ozarks. Not exactly by choice, mind. It's been a few years now, and I honestly preferred to have an on-again off-again, long distance, friends with benefits sort of relationship with them. Don't get me wrong, I'm still utterly gobsmacked by the beauty here. It's just.... claustrophobic? I used to complain to my parents that I couldn't breathe here. The humidity is stifling, I can't see the horizon, and there's always so much noise from chittering things in the trees. So many trees. They're like weeds. Beautiful and majestic, but Dorothy wants to leave the Emerald City when she can afford to move out.

I did, however, title this for Ninhursag. Living in the shadow of these mountains... I've learned a lot about my family. Some good, some bad. Also a lot about what it means to HAVE a family. My mother was always, to my eternal shock, the outdoorsy type. She's an absolute Hufflepuff. The most Hufflepuffy Hufflepuff to ever huff and puff. I, the squirrely Ravenclaw with a Slytherin streak, prefer my man made boltholes. We have our differences, our emotional callouses and bloody old wounds, stretch marks and stress reactions.

Ninhursag, mother of the gods, had a bit of a try-everything mad scientist husband who made mistakes just like anyone. Sometimes they fought, sometimes her husband's brother had to call her up via a helpful fox to say her husband was dying, and they would make up while she nursed her clever idiot back to health. She was one of two goddesses to join the ranks of the Seven Who Decree Fate, the second being the fiery and fickle Inanna. We know her as the Lady of the Foothills, Nin-hursaj (Lady-Mountain).

She was not born with this title. She was granted it. Not by Anu, not by Enki, but by her son Ninurta who marched against the Asag demon and his army of stone minions, magical talking mace in hand. And why? Was it because she gave him some sort of boon, was it because he was trying to curry favor?

No. She followed him into enemy territory out of motherly determination, she stood by him even in the rage of battle and was unmoved. For that, he named her Ninhursag. He gave her the mountains and everything they held, from the fruits at the peak to the ore of the roots, and all of the animals in between.

I like to think about that, sometimes. When it gets hard to remember why I try anymore. When I see a sugar-smile and remember when it covered up the thorns. When I'm too scared to call her, but also too bloody-hearted to let her sit in that house all alone. I remember that determination that could suture together all wounds, I remember that love isn't always a meadow thick with dandelion wishes. Sometimes it's battling an army made of granite and grit, seeing this spitfire lightning rod of a woman who never says die walk through the van and step to my side like she'd only lost me in the soup aisle, and letting her be my mother even when I'd rather she were anywhere else, away from her embarrassing shipwreck of a daughter.

So I light the cedar incense, take a deep breath, and pick up the phone.