By Mary Ford-Grabowsky
This wealthy combination of prayers, poems, and sayings by means of girls writers and sages from all over the world and all through heritage deals day-by-day proposal and enjoyment. integrated during this assortment are assorted voices starting from the early Sufi mystic Rabia and the trailblazing Mechtild of Magdeburg, to modern poets Denise Levertov, Kathleen Norris, Maya Angelou, Jane Hirshfield, and Mary Oliver. those and plenty of different treasures of women’s knowledge are accrued the following from such wide-ranging resources as Celtic benefits, local American petitions, and Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Hindu, and chinese language prayers. a professional on spirituality with a remark-able eye for the easiest inspirational literature, Ford-Grabowsky contains during this assortment prayers of compliment, thank you, petition, mystical ecstasy, and perception. Her e-book explores self-discovery, mothering, internal power, wishes, paintings, gratefulness, religious darkness, mysti-cal adventure, and love.
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Extra resources for WomanPrayers : Prayers by Women from throughout History and Around the World
12] F I N D I N G M Y S E L F Now I see life as it really is. Freed from all that binds, my heart is still. E. Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. . [P]laying small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.
This book’s pages, furred with use, fade to brown. Its leaves have pressed my mother’s memories in perfect squares, the things she needs concealed from time, things she likes to come upon by chance:  T H E M O T H E R L I N E household tips and obituaries, invitations to weddings. My ﬁrst poem is in there, and the card someone made for mother’s day. Sentiment among the weeds of recipes she clipped in more ambitious days that crowd, untasted, between the even rows of meals we chewed our way through but never knew the names of, all those years’ worth of peeled vegetables and trimmed meat, a lifetime’s preparation vanished into our waiting mouths.
My mother unfolded the cloth and ﬂoated it over the table, embrace and release all in one ﬂuid sweep of deep red linen. And I loved her, loved her wide motion and loved the laughter late, as I drifted down to sleep singing whispers in my child’s bed, loved the moments as much as I would ever love any moments beside any lover in any darkness slashed through with quick laughter, voices layered and ﬂecked with swaying light. And now I know that unfolding, know in my body the single motion of welcome and release, know the tenor and ﬂare of the cloth billowing,  T H E M O T H E R L I N E settling smooth, ready for light, liquid, laughter, draping thighs and feet and hands and knees in the tangled dark.