Remembering how to pray
by Lian Brook-Tyler
Remembering how to pray
I was raised on many islands between the devil and the deep blue sea… we journeyed leagues past Organised Religion, had a brief stop in Atheism, made day trips to Agnosticism, and most of all, were returning pilgrims to Spiritual, without ever calling it that, via a childhood saturated in song, paint, wild nature, magical plants, and tarot.
Spiritual it may have been, prayer-full, it was not.
But this month, I’ve devoted myself to prayer…
Every morning
When eating
When drinking
When taking my supplements (three times a day)
When I remember in random moments
When I find myself somewhere that other humans have called holy
And it’s the last one that’s been most profound, which surprised me. Maybe because my first real introduction to prayer was many years ago through shamanism, which, although it can absolutely take place at a sacred place, can also be what makes a place sacred.
So last week, we set off, panting like proverbial mad dogs and Englishmen up to the top of a mountain pretending to be a hill in the heat of the Rhodes sun, on a visit to the Acropolis of Lindos, thinking we were going to see the fortification by the Knights of St John (often confused with the Templars). It was there indeed, solid, impressive, organised, masculine.
But once at the top, what called to me was something else altogether… what was left of a Temple of Athena Lindia, Greek Goddess of Wisdom and Warfare.
Although I’m what some might describe as an expert on Goddesses (if we’re watching a TV quiz show or playing a game, and anything involving ancient Gods and myths comes up, everyone will immediately look to me to answer the question), Athena isn’t one I’ve ever been drawn to go deeper with. I mean, I could list her stories, traits, and symbols, but I’ve never felt her.
Until that moment.
Her temple stood, majestic, looking down on the ruins of later times around her, and the ancient seas beyond.
As soon as I saw it, I found myself slipping wordlessly away from my family, settling down on the dusty ground right on the cliff edge, close to the temple.
I prayed.
I made an offering of the only thing of beauty I had with me: a beloved peacock-print purse, tucking it between the old stones.
I wept.
I prayed some more.
The moment that I’d finished, a woman came over and asked if I’d like her to take my photograph. It seemed a strange thing under the circumstances… I felt quite naked sitting there with my heart replete, my eyes still wet, and my mouth still echoing with words for immortal ears only… but I said yes, curious what she saw and might capture.
She snapped away.
After she left, I rose to my feet and began making my way past the temple to find my family.
Before I’d gone five steps, a dragonfly appeared, circling close, so close I thought it would land on me. All iridescent wings, huge eyes, and fierce beauty.
I didn’t pray for a dragonfly, but I knew then that my prayers had been heard.
I drifted back down the mountain that was pretending to be a hill, on a Greek island between the devil and the deep blue sea, with Athena at my back.
Through stones and story, our ancient ancestors are reminding me how to pray.
♥️
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