Because of her finer intuitive ability, the woman more easily assimilates the Will of the Creator. And then she leads man by the hand, naturally, in that direction, for the benefit of both and spread of blessings everywhere. Thus acts the true woman, the woman who honours her femininity, who dignifies it with all her being.
In faithfulness and loyalty do your task lie. Priestesses for the Holy longing for Light and Truth.
Woman! How do you stand today? Are you worthy to bear that glorious name.. Woman?
On 7th September, a drop from the Fountainhead of Purity will be freely offered. It rests with you, you women and girls to drink and be filled to the measure of your volition.
LORD! We beseech THEE, grant this blessing to all who truly seek it. May the Rose and the Lily bloom beneath the Mothers’ Mantle forever!
Men and woman are equal under Spiritual Law though they have been designated different tasks in Creation. A genuine feminine woman is spiritually and intuitively stronger than the man and her task is too pass on her higher spiritual influence/energy – which in turn can inspire the man in his activity towards what is noble, True and beautiful.
Aside from her earthly influence woman/the mother is primarily responsible for all her descendants ie the “quality”/spiritual maturity of the souls she attracts to incarnate on the earth.
I must try to be alone for part of each year… and part of each day… in order to keep my core, my center… Women must be still as the axis of a wheel in the midst of her activities. She must be the pioneer of achieving this stillness, not only for her own salvation, but for the salvation of family life, of society, perhaps even of our civilization.
And perhaps what made her beautiful was not her appearance or what she achieved , but in her love and in her courage, and her audacity to believe: no matter the darkness around her, light ran bright within her, and that was the way she came alive, and it showed up in everything. ❤️☀
Purple veins strain against the skin. Pale, translucent, paper thin. Skinny fingers clawed in monstrous shapes, Brown spots from years that she can’t erase.
Now wrinkled and fragile, weak and sore, So many things she can’t do anymore. Some days she feels she’s been betrayed By the cruelty of her advancing age.
She rubs her hands to ease the ache And recalls the life they helped to make. She looks at them and feels the loss, Living a life bears a very high cost.
These hands that held her children near, That gently dried their salty tears. Hands that held her husband’s tight, That never let go against the fight.
Miraculous hands that protected and soothed. Hands, they conveyed her every mood. Hands so strong they could carry the weight, That would never give up and never forsake.
Those hands that took little but always gave, Hands that applauded each achievement made. Those soft, sweet hands that gently cared, For those sick or lost in dark despair.
Hands that fussed and fumbled that day Her husband gave their daughter away. Those hands holding tight as he slowly died, Caressing his brow as she stood by his side.
Hands that rocked her grandson to sleep, That gladly took over when others grew weak. Hands that once held everyone that she loved, And prayed for strength to our God above.
Hands that were always so willing to give, Hands that reveal a life fully lived. Small, feeble hands, now empty and cold, These hands that each day will keep growing old.
These hands she now tends to hide away, These hands that at times make her feel ashamed. Grotesque and useless in her eyes, They rest in her lap as she quietly cries.
But I see the hands of a hero so true, A woman who survived what this life put her through. A woman whose heart still shimmers like gold, With the hands of a warrior who made her mark on this world.
Pollong is a plant obsessed cat cuddler, who dreams about fragrant gardens every night and now decided to share her love with the world. A tiny nook of it anyway.
Purplerays 