In this picture: candied figs, pomegranate, extra-virgin olive oil, glass of sparkling mineral water.
Words spoken at the offering:
Humbly, I offer greeting to the gracious Queen of Heaven.
Holy Mother of the people of Canaan,
I have been moved by Your grief.
I have brought You oil,
I have brought You light,
I have brought You food,
And set down a cup of cold water.
Be welcome here, O Great Queen,
And may this humble offering bring You some comfort.
***
I was moved to make offering to Athirat, the Canaanite Queen of Heaven. In reading the gracious Ms. Dawson's post, what struck me first and foremost was the near-overwhelming sense of grief. This Goddess, an architectrix of the cosmos, was grieving.
The image that came to my mind was that of a woman (or Woman), sitting on the curb in a modern-day city, with all the grayness, noise, and dirt that comes with that. Her feet were bare, cut up and bleeding. Her once-fine dress was in tatters, worn so thin in places Her modesty was threatened. Her hair was unkempt, snarled in Medusa-like tangles. Her hands were dirty, her nails broken or torn off, and dried blood flaked off her fingers. She was gaunt from hunger, her lips cracked and raw. Tears streaked through the dirt caked on her face.
All around her, people walk by. No-one looks at her, in fact, they make a concentrated effort to avoid making anything that could be construed as eye contact. As one of those passers-by, I have to ask myself, "Is she unwell? Was she attacked? Is she homeless? Is she dangerous?"
Do I walk on by? After all, if she's dangerous... But I don't know. And there's a woman crying in the street. Maybe I can't help her. Maybe she is mad. But if she's hurt, if she's been attacked... what if she needs help? I can at least see her settled somewhere safer than that curb. I have enough money I can get her a local taxi to the police station. I have a phone, I can call for help. I can get her a bottle of water--she looks parched! I can stay with her until help arrives.
I do not follow the gracious deities of Canaan, but... The Gods are grieving. I cannot become aware of that, and do nothing, any more than I could walk past that weeping Woman.
I've set up a new shrine in my home. I call it the Wayfarer's Shrine. It's where I make offerings to Deities that are not regularly honored at this hearth. It's kind of like a guest bedroom, where there is warmth, light, drink, sweet scents, and welcome.
Words spoken at the offering:
Humbly, I offer greeting to the gracious Queen of Heaven.
Holy Mother of the people of Canaan,
I have been moved by Your grief.
I have brought You oil,
I have brought You light,
I have brought You food,
And set down a cup of cold water.
Be welcome here, O Great Queen,
And may this humble offering bring You some comfort.
***
I was moved to make offering to Athirat, the Canaanite Queen of Heaven. In reading the gracious Ms. Dawson's post, what struck me first and foremost was the near-overwhelming sense of grief. This Goddess, an architectrix of the cosmos, was grieving.
The image that came to my mind was that of a woman (or Woman), sitting on the curb in a modern-day city, with all the grayness, noise, and dirt that comes with that. Her feet were bare, cut up and bleeding. Her once-fine dress was in tatters, worn so thin in places Her modesty was threatened. Her hair was unkempt, snarled in Medusa-like tangles. Her hands were dirty, her nails broken or torn off, and dried blood flaked off her fingers. She was gaunt from hunger, her lips cracked and raw. Tears streaked through the dirt caked on her face.
All around her, people walk by. No-one looks at her, in fact, they make a concentrated effort to avoid making anything that could be construed as eye contact. As one of those passers-by, I have to ask myself, "Is she unwell? Was she attacked? Is she homeless? Is she dangerous?"
Do I walk on by? After all, if she's dangerous... But I don't know. And there's a woman crying in the street. Maybe I can't help her. Maybe she is mad. But if she's hurt, if she's been attacked... what if she needs help? I can at least see her settled somewhere safer than that curb. I have enough money I can get her a local taxi to the police station. I have a phone, I can call for help. I can get her a bottle of water--she looks parched! I can stay with her until help arrives.
I do not follow the gracious deities of Canaan, but... The Gods are grieving. I cannot become aware of that, and do nothing, any more than I could walk past that weeping Woman.
I've set up a new shrine in my home. I call it the Wayfarer's Shrine. It's where I make offerings to Deities that are not regularly honored at this hearth. It's kind of like a guest bedroom, where there is warmth, light, drink, sweet scents, and welcome.