Nisaba - Tumblr Posts
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.
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.
Praise be to Nanshe, Lady of Compassion and simple kindnesses. She is happenstance and a curious ear, old memories, a warm smile. She remembers where others forget. Today I saw the hand of a goddess in a harried law firm associate, an accquaintance from years past, whose path has led her to fortune and to a brief lunch in the house of Nisaba. I did not see her then, not yet, maybe a passing nod to beauty in a nice shirt. I saw kindness in an approach to the elderly, unexpected and friendly, while I busied myself over translations and transcriptions at my glass-and-light tablet. Headphones in my ears, lost to my own work.
“Nightbird Books,” I heard. “They have a writing club.”
The chatter between my ears and fingers and clattering keys and darting eyes stalled out and drifted, and I caught coffee eyes and the quick flash of a sickle-moon smile. My hands were already at my ears, plucking away the tech to face something more personal. “Forgive me for interrupting, but I heard you mention a writing club?”
I need people. I didn't think it as much, when I had a house to hide in, but it hurts sometimes. I nibble at the edge of the shadows and bank the aching fire in my eyes. This, perhaps, could be one more outstretched hand from the land of the living. Writing is my passion, after all.
She recognizes me, even so changed beyond my atypical dress. She acknowledges me, holds out a conversational bookmark, and by words I accept it as numbly as my hands would a physical scrap of paper in my curious surprise. I don’t recognize her, exactly. By the end of the conversation I’ll still only recall the ghost of someone at my geology table in college. By the end of this conversation, I will be driven to write prayers of gratitude for the woman that ghost became and might always have been.
She finishes her talk with the older couple, then circles around to my library coffeeshop table and plops her bag lunch nearby. I clear some tech and wires away. She sits down, greets me, asks if I recall which class we shared. Neither of us is really sure, but that’s little obstacle to friendly conversation. Some part of me is still stunned at the social contact. I talk over the internal radio static. She asks after my project, glowing off of my glasses, and I say that I’m yelling at Youtube and the finicky subtitle program. I’m transcribing some of my (pagan) Youtube videos so I can translate subtitles, and experimenting in English first. (If a project ever was under the eye of Nisaba, this must surely be). More socializing happens, a stranger at another table briefly joins in to discuss the auto-translate program on Facebook, and some part of my brain flickers weakly with the surprise. I like to think it went unnoticed.
We discuss Nightbird Books. It’s a beautiful little bookstore with a reading room in the back, where dwell a collection of jewel-bright little chirping fluffs in the boughs of a tall glassed-in tree. She tells me the time and typical days, brings up the occasional open mic poetry night, and at that point I’m utterly hooked. I’ve been on the search for an open mic poetry cafe for years in this town, and here a place is dropped in my lap? She tells me of the way they work, casual and open, teenage suicide poetry to the script of an entire movie on inky reams, and as if that weren’t enough the gods must decide to pour raw sunlight into this woman’s heart. At some point in this conversation with me, the hungry, the homeless, and admittedly the disaster lesbian firmly ignoring her beautiful coffee skin, she reaches into her lunch bag as easy as breathing to offer me a large packet of fries, the ones in the bag to boot, and barbecue sauce (which is the superior condiment bar none). She gives me the receipt too, and tells me with an impish little grin and casual drawling dismissiveness that I should call the number on it to complain that my fries are cold, to get myself some free extras. This is not a “fatten the poor child up” situation. This is just...
It is at this point that some invisible sharpie must underline the name of Nanshe on this beautiful near-stranger’s forehead a third time for good measure.
The rest of it slips through my mental fingers, but I do not forget a kindness done.
The metaphorical bell-pull has been tugged like a cheerful little toddler was at it. I hear it loud and clear, and I certainly won’t forget.
She realized shortly that her lunch break was nearly done, and I bid her farewell with my utterly pleased dumbstruck shock hopefully well-contained. I’ll be at that meeting, next Monday. Hopefully I’ll get her name.
Until then, praise be to Nanshe in the house of Nisaba. Praise be to the goddesses of small kindnesses and communication, of insight and writing clubs, of outstretched fries freely given and library coffee shops. Of half-remembered faces driven to easy smiles to old friends, and of free wifi.
I adore and extol the names of Nanshe and Nisaba, goddesses who dwelled side-by-side in ancient Lagash. I breathe the name of Nanshe, whose hand is on the homeless, and the name of Nisaba, whose hand is on the scribe. By their will is my crop watered, are my eyes made clear, do the birds sing sweetly amidst a storm of troubles. My Lady Nanshe, of welcoming arms- my lady Nisaba who is beloved by her servant, I weep for gratitude and awe of your mercy. I praise the goddesses of the library parking garage that saved me in the storm.
Nanshe who laughs in the flood, Nisaba who is colored like the starry heavens, it is sweet to call your names. I praise you in gratitude, and I pray for your kindness on the woman who came to me when I was in need. May her loved ones find like aid in times of trouble, may her enemies find only confusion. And may your gentle hands on the shoulders of the desperate ones hold them fast even as your sure-footed strides set the roots of the world to trembling.
Nanshe of the birds and the fish, Nisaba of the House of Wisdom whose body is the flecked barley, it is sweet to praise you. May your names resound on the lips of the black-headed ones forever and ever.
(Even if they recognize them not. My goddesses, the word only spreads. Your servant has been busy, and your values flourish with new life yet still.)
Polytheist Ramblings: Nisaba
I was going to title this “Finding Sanctuary”, but I think this fits with my little series better.
I talk a lot about other gods, because their influences are many-layered. It’s easy to talk about a goddess of the mountains when you live there, or a god of the furious sun when you’re melting. But how to talk about a goddess you’re sworn to? There’s something about the relationship that just won’t out with words, which is ironic considering.
My Lady Nisaba colored like the stars, whose body is the flecked barley, She who holds the Book of Names and who had a hand in the creation of her scribes, the goddess I revere and adore, is... as I said, words fail. Except for the part where she literally IS the written word. And then I’m laughing at my laptop screen again.
But my mind was wandering the other day, and I started mentally constructing a hypothetical temple. Something small and unobtrusive, but interesting. Maybe someplace busy, like New York, with the old back-alley surprise shops and classy old courtyards surrounded by sprouting skyscrapers. I’m rather attached to America, but I could see something similar in London. Either way, some sort of divot in the walls of glass and steel, a high-walled courtyard with a heavy door. But the door is left open, and the walls are soft with vines. It’s guarded by twin stone lions. The same ones you sometimes see in the yards of people trying too hard to look regal, maybe. But it’s an old practice. Probably inspired by the New York Library. Possibly a reflection of the statues that guarded kings and old polytheist temples. Either way, there would be lions, and maybe a carving of the Anzu Bird over the lintel.
In this hypothetical little sacellum, no if ands or buts about it, there would be a public bookcase or two. I’ve seen them around town, and they’re absolutely brilliant. The paving stones would be covered in all sorts of book quotes in as many languages as I could convince a mason to try, including Braille. At the back there would have to be a statue, and some of my thinking is probably inspired by when I wandered Granada and would stumble on an aljibe with a mosaic of the Virgin over it. In my head this looks a little bit close to the Madonna, and I’m not sure what I think of that. But there’d be a little plaque on the wall explaining who she is, and a basket or two for whatever a person might want to offer. I like the idea of a prayer box, I’ve seen those before, where you write on a slip of paper and it stays in the box as a secret. Or the papers are burned. Either way, both fit with the goddess of the written word and the old ways of burning offerings to lift your prayers skyward.
I have a lot of ideas, and no real means or resources to focus on them, but ideas are nice. I was thinking about this temple idea, and I wondered to myself what her sacred animal would be. There’s no record of one. Lions and bulls and dragons are all staple parts of the old hymns, but... I wanted to see if anything had developed over the years. In America we’ve developed this idea of giving teachers an apple, which is why I offer them to her. We associate twin lions with libraries because of the New York Library. Maybe there was more, hiding away with the book curses and scriptoriums.
I typed “Ten Most Iconic Libraries” into Google.
A good percentage of them are related to monasteries, which makes sense. Some of them had royal sponsorship at one point or another. There’s nods to their local history, the obvious relish of architects given room to play, some modernized and some stately old monuments. But there was one little detail that kept popping up in the descriptions: quite a few of the oldest libraries had a... symbiotic relationship of sorts with resident bats.
Bats and small birds like to hole up in unusual places, true. Check out your local mall food court and keep an eye out in the airport as you drag your suitcase down the moving sidewalk to see for yourself what I mean. But apparently your friendly neighborhood pest control has a taste for bookworms.
(For the record, the term ‘bookworm’ refers to any insect with a taste for literature. This extends to moths who eat cloth bindings and beetles who tunnel through the paper like wood, as well as the beetles after your leather tomes.)
In ancient Sumer, bats and birds were associated with Nanshe, especially pelicans. More specifically, owls were associated with lilitu-demons and possibly Ereshkigal. But then, their libraries more closely resembled the cooling rack at your local college pottery class. Not something many bookworms wanted to nibble.
Cultures change and religions evolve. I think I’ve found my answers, at least to this question. Especially considering how sometimes the endless shelves remind me of a quiet crypt (Seriously, my first time in a proper old crypt that was my first comparison). Maybe I’m obsessive and seeing connections, maybe bats are my favorite animal and I’m biased. But it’s interesting, to see the evolution of the gods. It’s interesting, to run the thought experiments, to ask the “what if”s, to make yourself at home on the outskirts and then see places where society has already met you in the middle, unnoticed.
For that matter, colophons are pretty cool too.
Nisaba za3-mi2-zu dug3-ga-am3
I'm screaming. How did I not know about this? They've actually found a temple of Nisaba and Haya?! I NEED ALL OF THE INFO. Also the lion is cute.
Hello there! I had a quick question about a thing. Context: I've been typing up a set of medical manuals for a medicine woman, since my eyes are young and hers are not. I've been given the chance to put a couple of words of farewell at the end. As an absolute nerd and a devotee of Nisaba on top of that, have you come across any common closing statements in your Sumerian/Akkadian/etc translations, like how we end letters with "Sincerely" and so on?
First, that project sounds amazingly cool. Second, I have mixed news for you. On the one hand, as you can see in the selection I’ve translated, Akkadian letters didn’t tend to end with a closing statement; they simply stopped at the end of the message. I scanned through other letters from various time periods and places, and I didn’t see a common closing phrase.
But! If you want a nice phrase, there are wishes of wellbeing that often appear near the beginning of letters. Here are a couple variants:
šulumka maẖar bēliya u bēltiya lu dāri“May your wellbeing last forever before my Lord and Lady.” (spoken to a man) (PBS 7 105:10)
bēlki u bēletki liballiṭuki“May your Lord and Lady keep you healthy.” (spoken to a woman) (CT 29 19:4 and elsewhere)
If you wanted to personalize them with Nisaba and address them both to a woman, then they would be:
šulumki maẖar Nisaba lu dāriNisaba liballiṭki
NaNoWriMo!
It is that time of year, folks. I haven't done this before, but I'd say it's high time. Especially considering my personal goddess, y'know? National Novel Writing Month is upon us, and I'm going to take the time to write up 50,000 words of poetry, prayers and more featuring the Anunnaki. If anyone has ideas, I'm all ears. This is a very unique combination of despair and delight, I must say. I am so not prepared, but so very ready to do this.
Altar for when your style is cramped, featuring: One Kleenex A cigarette lighter A cup of cheap but delicious sangria Two icons made from salt dough for Nuska (left) and Nisaba (right), respectively A candle with a stick of incense in it In the background is also a naked Dr. Pepper bottle full of ritually purified water. Which basically amounts to me praying to Enki for him to purify it. I’m not going to make a habit of altar posts, but considering my upcoming video and the number of people nervous about not having elaborate altars, I figured it was appropriate. This was set up on a bedside table, the only place I could. You can easily substitute water for sangria, because what is more sacred than water? I usually pair it with water crackers and an apple, but. Style is very cramped right now.
On Nisaba: Epithets
This is just a quick way to dust my brain of ideas before bed, but also a thing I've been interested in. I should be a good scribe and list sources, do some superscript numbers, and all that jazz. I am a sleepy scribe who needs to earn money in the morning, so I'm taking shortcuts like a college student.
Historical terms used for Nisaba:
Mother of the Burning
Priestess of the Country
Purity-Adorned
Noble Lady whose body is the flecked barley
Splendid Radiance
Righteous Wild Cow
Exceedingly Wise
Foremost of the Land
Righteous woman
Woman who swells with joy
Lady who radiates
Exalted Scribe of An
Land-Registrar of Enlil
Beautiful Woman
Lady Colored Like The Stars
Dragon Emerging in Glory at the Festival
Lady Of Broad Wisdom
Lady of the Protective Spirits
Lady of the House of Wisdom
She whose Heart knows Counting
Throne-Bearer of Ninlil
These are not all limited to her, but they have been used to reference her. Her "spheres" if you want to be picky about it are barley, astronomy, mathematics, the act of writing, and literature among other things. There are nuances to her, as with most people.
UPG epithets:
Goddess of Information Technology
Great Librarian
Keeper of the Book of Names
She Who Holds the Book of Life
Lady with hair like mulberry silk
Lady of the Gold Standard
She who is the beauty of the reed wedge pressed into clay
She who dwells in the college coffee shops
Dragon of the book-hoard
Lady of the printing press
She who speaks multitudinous tongues
She who dwells in binary code
Also as a side note, please appreciate the pun in my offering apples and blackberries. In my experience she has a preference for vanilla, too. Check out the chemical breakdown of books as they age and you'll find some vanillin, which is involved in that sacrosanct "book smell". Also almonds, which I'll be trying soon.
Right now, Nisaba and Enki have the godly equivalent of Google Docs open, and are staring at a joint project. Enki, among his many talents as Organizer Of The World Order and Maker Of Stuff (see: sheep, grain), knows how to shape worlds out of binary code as easily as Ninhursag (his wife) can shape people out of clay. His is the power of knowledge, for knowledge gives you the grasp of the soul of a thing. Nisaba is the written word itself, numbers, and the recording of that knowledge. They're pretty proud of this bizarre brainchild. It's grown in unexpected ways, thrown a few pudding cups and accidentally made entirely new concepts, but all in all it seems to be going well. It's been in the care and keeping of their pet project, humanity, for several decades now, and adopted several interesting personality quirks. Inanna, the lady of passion and violence and the precipice of night, loves this new thing humans have access to. She revels in the snuff films and porn viruses, the beauty blogs and military histories. All of the gods want in on the action when humans learn how to communicate, but none do so to better effect than her. But now these three gods are staring at one another, blank faced. Nisaba of-ten-thousand-tongues just read aloud a DM from Inanna, lady-of-delight. She's excellent at reading comprehension and is possessed of an extraordinarily compelling voice, but she reads this with the methodical caution of a person asked to teach chemistry at a puppy training school. She runs it by her husband, Haia, who is the scribal god excelling in matters of economics. Surely he can provide some clarification on the message? At it happens, he can. He does so with a frown normally reserved for double-stuffed bookcases and sharpie redactions. Together, playing off of their strengths to shore up the shaky parts of Inanna's rather empassioned and emoji-riddled complaint, they present the whole of the issue to Father Enki. Enki, on being presented with it, promptly summoned all involved. All are in favor of protecting children and advocating for human rights and freedoms, this is a given. The fact that these two goals might be opposed is a bit of a joke, but it isn't a funny joke by any means. Nisaba is carefully dragging a graphite-dusted nail over the Constitution of the United States. Inanna has somehow set her bra on fire and is casually tossing physical copies of several internet posts on it to keep the present company warm. Enki and Haia are discussing the logistics behind the issue while the goddesses gather ammunition. December 17 is the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers. December 17 is Wright Brothers Day, commemorating the first successful flight. If ever there were a day for big changes, if ever there were a day to NOT piss off a goddess who personifies sex and violence, it would be that day. The Internet in all its forms is ours, just as the domestication of animals is ours now. The gods can only do so much, though they are vast beyond our wildest daydreams. And right now while Inanna flaunts nipple rings and a rainbow wrap skirt, and Nisaba pulls up research on cis male breastfeeding and every freedom of speech court case known to man? At this very moment, while Haia combs business records and the dictated notes of corporate meetings? Enki is sitting behind his Power Desk(tm) fiddling with a fidget spinner, waiting to see which way this chemical cocktail will explode. He'll make his move if he must, when he must. For now, his apkallu are bustling around the lower offices, and they're always at their most adorable when hard at work. Everyone is politely ignoring the fact that they don't actually want the big man to make a move. The last time that was necessary, he was saving mankind from a flood brought about by his brother's divine annoyance. Surely, the apkallu whisper. Surely it won't come to that? Enki spins his fidget spinner, scrolls through a few more memes, and waits.
Maybe I should practice mindfulness more often, because I just realized that I’m surrounded. Laptop, tablet, and smartphone all doing different tasks on a hardwood desk that wouldn’t be out of place at a nunnery, a wooden chair under my butt of the unique strain that falls between “looks painful” and “not so bad”, the night sky on my right and endless library shelves to my left (as well as below on the lower story). What snapped me into this realization was the word “epeolatry” floating behind my eyes like so much steam from a coffee cup, and the resulting rapid-fire joke that doesn’t make sense at less than the speed of thought.
If there was a stereotype for devotees of Nisaba, if such a thing had enough traction to be a stereotype, then this four-eyed girl with a lamassu pin- tablet and stylus in hand- might qualify.
From: a praise poem of Sulgi (Sulgi E)
“No one shall ever let any of it pass from memory ……. It shall not be forgotten, since indestructible heavenly writing has a lasting renown.” -a dude from roughly 6,000 years ago dictating to his scribes as they write on clay tablets, probably If anyone questions why I worship Nisaba, see the above text.
My Lady Nisaba colored like the stars, radiant and beautiful, your servant comes before you tired and in agony. Mother of the scribes, your child is lost in the dust of confusion and the dark of uncertainty, my eyes strain and my hands grope through the murk of this turmoil for your mercy. Lady, were I in another place, another time, I would tear my clothing and scream in the market, but for now I beg the strength to not fall on bitter habits and tear myself to bits. Goddess of the written word, you understand agony. You have sent your divine daughter to the house of another, entrusted her to new soil and strange horizons. You have seen every love letter and business complaint to ever cross the divine work-desk, and keep the records of every story in the vaulted library of your E-zagina. With this in mind, O lady who grants speech to the dead and memory to the forgotten, blessed lady whom I revere and adore above all others, your servant comes before you to beg cool water in the deserts of anguish. I ask for the strength to face my pain, and the wit to overcome it. I ask for your gift of communication, that through diplomacy and civility might the lion be persuaded to stillness, and that with the divine gift of honesty might any poison be lanced from the wounds. And I ask for the gift of understanding, on behalf of myself and the raging bull who snorts and stamps and gores in the face of perceived offenses. My lady of the tablet-stacks, goddess who dwells in the House of Wisdom, communication is well-known as the foundation of any relationship. And so I come before you, in full solemnity and humbleness, to ask for your blessing in this most essential of spheres. May you come forth like the sun for the ones whose throats are stopped in the face of adversity, may you shoot forth like strong barley in the fields for the ones who wither in the face of civil confrontation. Lady of my home, fierce dragon of the book-hoard, your name is like sweet honey on my lips. May it resound on the lips of the black-headed forever and ever. Lady Nisaba, be praised.
First Installment: Weirdness Saga
I have decided to keep track of strange things that I do as a way of keeping up my self-esteem. ¿Por qué? —you may ask, confused. Well, I would reply. I delight in being strange, and I do it on accident most of the time. If I’ve been sad, then I need a reminder that life is a tragicomedy. If you haven’t ever mandated one silly action per day to yourself in the name of self-care, I recommend it. Example: Today I was carrying a skull-shaped purse around Walmart, so I decided to monologue to it, with my best theatre kid projecting voice. The fact that I was grinning widely detracted from the severity of the scene, I’ll admit. After all, poor Yorick’s demise and the mistreatment of his remains is a serious matter. I wonder if I can dedicate random public improv to Nisaba....
The city is founded on knowledge. Its bricks are filled with words, its walls are chapters, the buildings are books, the city is founded on knowledge. In the subterranean arteries there are graffiti lines, in the rafters of glassy towers there are etched-in hieroglyphs. The city, our city, the city of Holy Nisaba is founded on knowledge.
The millstone grinds for holy Nisaba, the water towers flow for holy Nisaba, the streets are swept for the coming of holy Nisaba’s pure footsteps. The hem of her linen robes collects no dirt, and the stars where they spin frame her face in a radiant crown. Holy Nisaba who marks the borders stands with tablet in hand, and her decrees are inviolable. They are carved stone to the workers, they are carved stone to the writers, her words are carved stone to the children who run in her fields. Her hand is on the architect, her hand is on the scribe, her hand is on the lawmaker, and the city is founded on knowledge.
The pencil writes for holy Nisaba, the pen flows smoothly for holy Nisaba, the compass and charcoal dance for holy Nisaba on snow-white reams. Paper mutters with delight in her presence, and keyboards clatter pleasantly for her. Computers awake with good cheer and swift grace for her, sharpeners whir eagerly for her, erasers scrub with fierce devotion to their task that they might please the Lady of the Written Word. Notebooks straighten their spines as soldiers at inspection and shelves set their footing to show their strength beneath the burden of her gifts. Bookworms and rot retreat from her approach, corruption shrinks from her glance, for the city is founded on knowledge and the holy written word is as steadfast as carved stone.
Holy Nisaba, your servant comes to the foot of your dais covered in the blue blood of a thousand pens, graphite smudged on her cheeks like a woman fresh from combat. Holy Nisaba, radiant mother, goddess of the burning field that gives way to green shoots, your servant comes to the foot of your dais on bended knee, bubbling with praises like cool spring water. Good woman, great wild cow who watches the barley fields, mother of the scribes who delights in mathematics, divine accountant and immortal poet, how can your servant not sing in adoration? The pen sings for you, the page sings for you. So too does your servant sing, ceaseless and exuberant, tearful and trembling with hands upraised. Holy Nisaba whose name is honey on the lips of her servants, who keeps the book of names and marks the actions of her servants, may you be well pleased in the piety of your scribes, may you be satisfied in their devotion, for the city is founded on knowledge and you sit enthroned at the peak of the mountain of metaphors, circled by sources, with library lions at your feet.
My lady, divine scribe of the Anuna, immaculate and triumphant in a kingdom built of binary code, the city is founded on knowledge and your words are immortal. For your power and your glory may your holy name be praised.
Since Tumblr is for being an unhinged nerd, I'm going to throw ideas at the wall for my own pagan practice and let y'all listen.
Since there is only a certain level of historical accuracy achievable, at the mercy of the Changing Times (living alone in an apartment with no city temple available) and also Information Scarcity (I do not have access to academic journals about cultus relating to my gods), I am in a constant state of both Learning and Grafting Ideas On that I think are suitable and a bit fun.
I'm mostly interested in Nisaba, mother of scribes, generally wonderful and awesome and partially represented by the literal written word itself.
I am also an extreme Elder Scrolls nerd and the dragon language/Way of the Voice has my attention for obvious reasons. It's obviously rooted in some other concepts (Buddhism maybe? not my area) but worship of language through language is exactly my idea of a good time. Meditating on the importance of words and where they come from, what they mean, why they mean that- that mostly comes down to etymology, but part of me is doing that 24/7 anyway. Silence as a form of worship also interests me. Like fasting from words, emphasizing the importance of them by experiencing their lack. Or, in the case of the Greybeards, only speaking when there is no other choice.
It's part of why I'm motivated to learn ASL, though that's a whole other rant. Suffice it to say that ASL doesn't work to enable someone who's selectively mute if nobody around understands it anyway.
I'm not entirely sure how practical a vow of silence is though, even if I'd just do it for a week or something. Everything everywhere requires speech, from dealing with managers and customers to apologizing for bumping someone in the hall. From what little I know, fasting rules say that you can eat/drink for health and emergency reasons, but what about words? Part of it, I think, is I'm afraid of being so weird that I get fired or excluded from things on sight. Which is hilarious considering how weird I already am.
I want to try some sort of Way Of The Voice mindfulness/silence thing for Nisaba, but the silence part in particular is driving me crazy. It's not supposed to be easy, but there are reasonable limits to "not easy" too, I think. Problem is the only time I actually speak with my mouth is in a drive-through or at work anyway. Maybe social media restriction???
Eh. Have a ramble. Anyone else tried using silence in worship?