Space for the dead.

[kiya]

(Not sure how coherent this is going to be; I woke up miserable and have become very loopy on cold medication since then.)

A thousand of bread,
A thousand of beer,
A thousand of every good thing.

I've been saying that a lot lately. Sometimes as prayer for my classmate; sometimes as prayer for the dead of other folks who have posted or spoken to me of their dead.

A thousand of bread,
A thousand of beer,
A thousand of every good thing.

I have gotten a lot of comments about it, too -- asking me where the prayer comes from, some of them; others thanking me for it, as something they could resonate with, something they could hold on to.

I'm reminded of the circle gathering lysana and blackfyr had two Pantheacons ago, a gathering of followers of "dark" gods. I was recently jackaled at the time, and now I'm finding one of Them circling around me again, seeing, I guess, how I respond to this.

I don't know how to give comfort to my communities when they suffer loss. I only have

A thousand of bread,
A thousand of beer,
A thousand of every good thing.

and offerings of tears for the dead, tears enough to lift the barque and sweep it to the far shore.

I gave Carl more tears last night, after queenofhalves posted his obituary. There is something final about an obituary, something unquestionable -- there was a part of me that was hoping it was nothing but some sort of rumour, an internet hoax maybe, hoping against hope even knowing that it was the slender unlikeliness, even after I prayed for him in amongst the faerie fire and wished him well, wished him alignment and ascending with all my heart.

I mourn readily when I am touched by humanity; the dead have gotten many tears from me, both long-dead and recent. I have given tears to people I never knew, when I have seen them reflected in eulogies, even people who some might say were undeserving of grief. But every soul deserves its chance, its mourning, the prayers to cross it over -- even if the cynic might say that better they cross than stay disturbed and causing distress to those who still live mostly in the seen, some sort of spectre rather than a glorified spirit.

I see Yinepu's gentle touch in the people who have spoken to me and thanked me for the prayers, thanked me for my words, asked me where they came from -- His gentle hand seeing the pain of loss and hallowing it as He always does, black jackal, o dearest black jackal. How much people need that gentleness, how much people need some way of finding His peace in such a time.

Last night I realised I needed to get a book. A fine book, some richly-bound display piece with blank pages. And on those pages, to write the names of my akhu, each shining glorified spirit, each one remembered and held in ma'at.

A thousand of bread,
A thousand of beer,
A thousand of every good thing.
May they all ascend!

Four times written, four times prayed; four and complete.