Prayers - Tumblr Posts
YUHHHH 🗣🗣🗣💯💯💯
LET THIS BE A MONTH OF FERVENT PRAYER! 🙏🏾
365 Days, 365 Prayers - Day 66: * ब्रह्मार्पणं ब्रह्म हविः ब्रह्माग्नौ ब्रह्मणा हुतम् । ब्रह्मैव तेन गंतव्यं ब्रह्मकर्म समाधिना ।। * Brahmarpanam Brahma Havih Brahmagnau Brahmana Hutam | Brahmaiva Tena Gantavyam Brahmakarma sanadhina || * Brahman is the Offering Brahman is the Oblation Poured out by Brahman into the fire of Brahman Brahman is to be attained by the one Who contemplates the action of Brahman * 🙏
365 Days, 365 Prayers - Day 81: * आहम् आरोग्यम् आहम् आनन्दम् आहम् मधुरम् आहम् पूर्णम् आहम् मृत्युञ्जय * Aham Arogyam Aham Aanandam Aham Madhuram Aham Purnam Aham Mrityunjai Aham Swatantra Aham Ahimsa * I am healthy, I am blissful I am pleasant, I am perfect I am immortal, I am free I am non-violent. * 🙏
Hello, I hope you and your family are well. Can you please help me recycle the post on my account? 🌺 And help rescue my family from the war in Gaza? 🙏 Thank you.
https://gofund.me/37005939
I apologize but anything like this I will not donate to. The next ask I get relating to any kind of donations or fundraising, I will close all requests. Please pay attention to my previous ask, which was also an ask about a donations. I do not have the money or time to worry about what's happening in Gaza when my own family is having a crisis. Please stop asking, that goes to all of you. I send all my love and prayers though, and I hope you make it out. 💖
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.)
Dear God,
My heart is pounding, chest warm. I feel oddly closer to you like this.
It’s a beautiful night. The wind is wild wispies through the pine trees outside my window. It’s 2 AM. I should’ve been asleep hours ago but my sleeping schedule is nonexistent thanks to covid.
I’m not sure what to do with my life. Its been on standstill since last spring break.
I don’t know what my calling is. I mean, sure, I want to be a teacher. It’s just taking so long and I need a way to express myself.
Painting, drawing, writing, sculpting...
It’s all good God given talents but I don’t know what to do with them.
Why bother when the paintings mean nothing, the drawings fade and the writing is forgotten? All there is, is you Lord.
I’m conflicted. Nothing matters and it’s all to be eaten by moths and turned to dust.
Nothing can compare to the natural beauty you have made. No camera can capture the vibrancy of the desert mountain. No color matches the scent of the rose.
Why am I here, when I’d much rather be with you? Why have me do things on Earth when it all fades to a dying star?
Your daughter,
F
(P.S- These are such thoughts I think at night as I listen to the late winter wind and watch my lava lamp churn. I’ve decided that I want to write my musings and prayers here. Don’t mind me.)
Dear God,
Today was so-so. My feet are cold. I’m laying here with them curled and tucked under blankets. Still they are ice cubes.
I know I have a lot to be thankful for. At least it’s not as cold here as other places in America.
I liked-no, loved the snow. Something about how it’s a white blanket draped over the desert mesquite. It’s just so cool.
I stuck my hand out the front grated door and smiled. It melted on my warm skin, that powdered sugared snow.
When I said ‘thank you God for the snow’ I felt it in my bones. Along with the chilled draft. (I was only wearing a short sleeping dress) that was days ago. Mom called it an ‘Arctic freeze’. Some of her prophetic YouTube people are saying that storms are coming and the Earth will quake. I’ll just be as I’ve always been, just here chilling.
Hopefully you have a plan for me to do, cause as it is right now, my life is pretty boring. I’ll be waiting on you. Come hell or high water (or even Arctic Freezes) Don’t forget me and help me to not forget you.
Yours,
F
Dear God,
You ever find out someone you loved has moved on?
Yeah- it hurts. like a black hole ripping out your insides, your chest a whirling mass of just mess.
I guess that’s a bit like the book of Hosea. Your version of heartbreak is incomparable. Like, you created each person, sculpted them in the womb and then we daily cheat on you. Not only is it a sucky relationship but we are condemning our souls to the pits of hell for all of time.
That’s way more than just getting bummed out that my favorite musician is married and I’m single. It’s even more than the fact that my ex has a new girlfriend.
It’s all pretty trivial I guess, in that scope. Still, it’s hard to zoom out of the black hole. To grab onto that slippery side and pull myself out. It’s a downwards spiral and I miss your light.
Maybe someday you’ll give me a man to love. A mate to pour out a part of my soul onto. I’ve been waiting for years for that.
But maybe you won’t and I’ll die alone. My mom says everyone dies alone anyways. I only take parts of her words since she’s married and trying to comfort me.
Anyways, I’ll be here. Waiting, with black hole, bitterness and all. Don’t call me Mara yet.
Yours,
F
Dear God,
How can I talk to you? Why does it feel empty sometimes. Maybe it’s just a reflection of my soul.
I think of my depression. How it snuck up on me like the boiling of a frog in hot water.
I assume the knob starting turning in middle school. Each degree an issue that wasn’t quite settled right. Never knowing why my biological father didn’t see me again. Wondering why I could never be as smart and pretty as my stepsister.
Why I’ve always been alone.
I thought the loneliness didn’t bother me. Since middle school I’d skip lunch and go to the library, alone. I read Edgar Allan Poe. Annabel Lee spoke to me on some level. No one else ever did.
I’m tired of being isolated. I want friends (as much as a geeky introvert can) and I want you.
I want you to look at me and see yourself reflected back. Rid me of this dark depression, this melancholy that soaks up all the light. Return me to that little girl. The one true self of my selves. Who you created me to be. She reaches out in that darkness to you. Please answer me.
Your daughter,
F
(not mine but this fits the mood)
It hits different when you have God’s grace and favor.
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This is the happiest day of my life.
I'm gonna color this baby later but am trying to think if he should be saying something. Maybe 'Stay Positive'?
Anyone have suggestions?
And so many do delight in warm rays of the summer sun
but while they do so, I hide in the shadow forest
for my sear skin to calm down.
Silently letting tears fall down
to the ground, hoping it would feel my prayers,
my longing for the Fall so strong
it would break open the skies and let it wildly rain;
to bring that soothing happiness to its child that's been in pain.
Emily Yvonne, Longing For The Fall