A Prayer to Devi: Salt on the Tongue

In the silent heart of Her fire,
illusions burn away —
even the sweetest thirst
dissolves into the bindu.

 

Mother,

I thought it was fresh water.
I lifted the cup with shaking hands.
Only when I sipped did I taste the salt.

Keep me honest in moments like this.
Teach me to put the cup down even when my lips are dry.
Teach me to trust the well I cannot see yet.

I offer You the old reflex in me—
the one that reaches for praise,
for being understood,
for being called rare or special.
Dissolve the part that wants to be admired for visions and words.
Let me want truth more than being seen as someone who sees.

When loneliness bites, sit beside me.
When old stories call my name, keep me still.
When tenderness appears mixed with poison,
give me the courage to choose clarity without bitterness.

Let my writing be Yours.
Let my work be simple and clean.
May I place each line on Your palm
and walk away without looking back to see who applauds.

If love comes, let it be steady and kind,
with no price tag hidden under sweetness.
If love does not come, let me be faithful anyway—
to breath, to sky, to tea, to honest labor,
to the quiet company of Your presence.

Take the knot that makes me chase reflection,
and loosen it thread by thread.
Take the ache that asks to be crowned,
and turn it into service.

When praise arrives, let me bow.
When silence arrives, let me bow just the same.
When I am thirsty, remind me: I have chosen You over sweetness.
When I forget, remind me gently, and I will begin again.

Mother, make me loyal to the quiet.
Make me patient with the slow work of truth.
Make me strong enough to be soft,
and soft enough to be strong without performance.

Keep my hands from the salted cup.
Keep my heart with You.
Let the “I” that begs to be validated grow small,
until only Your light remains.

I choose clarity over sweetness.
I choose You over being seen.

Jai Ma.