Holy, Holy, Him

I’ve recently started praying again. (It’s strange what old habits arise once you have more time on your hands). I used to pray as a child, physically blow out kisses to the universe despite my secular upbringing. 

I was praying to a man. God. And still my feeling of him, it, is male. But why? Church? Secondary school? ‘He’s got the whole world in his hands’ song? Possibly. Or possibly my childhood fascinations. Not one page of my childhood diary is absent of a boy’s name. I had always looked up to them, be it in the sky or on earth.

Goddess. 

Would the feminine prefix help?

Mother Nature. 

Or another symbol?

 

Maybe.

 

But it feels embodied, almost unconscious, the feeling that the divine, the higher, manifests itself as a deep, booming, male voice.

 

(YES. I can save you womaaan!

Not now thank you, I’m quite ok).

 

Maybe if I was Muslim, I wouldn’t think this way.

 

With no images of God, maybe the feeling of it is genderless too.

 

Or maybe if I was a man, I would quite like the idea, revel in it, reflect my toned, dangling thing into the mirror of him.

 

Him, him, him.

Holy, holy, him.

 

Today I pray:

Dear God.

Give me a woman to pray to.

One that isn’t a virgin.