S*x, Temple, Magick

A priestess through the annals of time…

The infallible heart. Elastic, robust. A torus field so wide and magnetic it cannot help but envelop. Because it is the only thing in us that never breaks, this is where we were trained to strengthen with grace.

The priestess will be trained in all arts erotic and esoteric. Her healing encompasses all. When met with the warrior, she will know exactly which modality to deploy from her extensive arsenal of knowledge. But first, the exchange must be mutual and the recipient must be ready to heal.

In that sacred space, however long it takes, all memories are wiped out through cord cutting. The priestess is a vessel and she must remain detached from all that is transpiring. She merely facilitates using the magnitude of her womb space. Here enters Goddess Tuwaret. She holds, she heals, she births. Without the space there can be no healing. Without compassion there can be no healing.

Her powers of the feminine polarity brings balance to the out of balance, weary male. The womb pours forth sacred waters, her tears and her honeyed secretions all serve to heal and soften. Her heart gushing with the tenderness of human compassion. So soft, so beautiful, so nourishing. Her third eye seeing all, knowing all but never judging for she understands. She understands this mortal coil and its suffering, its lessons.

How many the priestess has met and healed she will never remember. But if we were to meet again, she will recall a certain instance. She is here in this incarnation and present moment to serve a higher purpose and calling. She has strived hard to shed all shame, all fears, all taboos, and worst of all; all conditionings. We are no lesser nor greater. We are equal but only when we come together. Separation and isolation is the death knell in our egoic identity.

Once in a while the priestess will stray. It is all part of the human experience. She will allow one in to ravish her entire being and revolutionise her identity. Once again there will separation. The priestess stands in front of the altar of offerings and muses. Oh Hathor, Oh Auset, Oh Wadjet! After all, is this not what she has chosen? The lump in the throat is swallowed down hard. The heart wrenches and tears fall in that moment. She moves on because time moves on. She reminds herself that time is not real, this corporeal self is not real. And perhaps this is the only coping mechanism that holds off total collapse in her being.

Goddess looks over us, forever and always.