Virgin Mary - Blog Posts

Sexualizing nuns is 🙅‍♀️NOT🙅‍♀️ sexy

mood board as of late, been thinking of starting a podcast ? ✝️🤍⚔️

You don’t think Mary knew what it was to sacrifice?

Don’t think she spent every day of her son’s life wondering if it would be his last?

Don’t think she asked herself if his first steps would be his last?

Which of the times he told her goodbye would be the final one?

Which of the miracles he preformed would paint the target on his back?

Which of the gods he opposed would be gifted his head, Mary’s heart resting aside it?

You don’t think she grew to resent her God?

The man who gifted her the most precious of things, for the sole purpose of taking him away?

You don’t think she warred with herself for questioning God’s will?

Don’t think she ever wondered why it had to be her?

Did she ever look at the people amongst her and wonder why they deserved salvation?

Ever question why they should live while her child should not?

Ever pray to take his place?

Ever blame herself for what was to come?

For it was not simply God who made her child, she accepted him. She agreed.

Is she not as guilty and morally objectionable as those she scorns?

Is she not as blood coated as those who hammers the nails?

Mary, who knew the fate that beheld the lamb once it reached the wooden alter, cradled it in her arms.

The lamb felt warmth. The lamb felt love. The lamb looked upon his mother and saw the good in humanity. So what was the lamb to do but step upon the alter himself?

What could he have done but lay his head before the knife, in reverence to the woman who carried him there?

How was the lamb to repay his mother’s kindness with damnation? When she above all deserved absolution.

Mary raised her son with love, kindness and faith. Praying what she knew would occurs never came to pass. What else was she to do?

Her son felt the love and kindness she gave with no ask of repayment, saw her faith. Believing the good in humanity flowed and shined from her. What else was he to do?

period coming soon i can’t wait for the Visions

i am sure that hell must be cold

Reblog if You want to fuck Virgin Mary!

Nativity Scene

I'm finally ready for Advent season tomorrow with my new Nativity scene. My grandfather built his own Nativity scene for under the Christmas tree, as is most common in Quebecois and Acadian Christian homes. The baby Jesus of course doesn't make it to this set until Christmas Day, but I wanted to show off my hard work at transforming these figures and box from Dollarama into something unique and spectacular. On the cover of the box, I painted a landscape from the Magdalen Islands, where my Acadian ancestors lived. A happy Advent to all my fellow Christians, witches and believers of all denominations celebrating this holy time.

A lovely Quinzou to everyone! I got dressed in my best ritual clothes, packed up my Stella Maris rosary (that Moonshadow loves to munch on..), enjoyed some live Acadian music and had an intimate little ritual for Mary.

I don't care if religion is real or not and it has probably been said here before, but if I were Mary, I would've stopped believing in God the second I saw my son being almost dragged through the streets by the Romans.

God promised he would be the savior, that I would carry His son and give birth to him.

I gestated him, I felt him in my womb, I felt him kick. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh.

And when the time came, I held him when he took his first breaths, when he wailed after being born, when he was still covered in my blood, when he was but a small helpless newborn.

And I comforted him, and I nursed him, I gave him everything he would ever need. I loved him. I raised him.

I tended his wounds while on childhood. Probably taking care of his scrapped knees, maybe some splinters when he was learning to be a carpenter. Cleaning his tears after a nightmare, holding him tight after he got lost in a crowd.

I saw him perform his first miracle, my brain remembering how all those years ago, that angel promised my son to be not only the savior but also the son of God. The happiness of knowing he will be safe because he's the son of God, isn't he? God would never allow anything to happen to him.

See him grow, performing more miracles, watching him gather crowds and followers. Hearing him teach those same crowds, inspire people, help the poor, heal the wounded, resurrect the dead...

After 30 years, I would probably would have felt secure that God would never allow anything to happen to him. To his son. To my son.

I imagine how heartbreaking would have been to Mary to hear that he had been betrayed. That he was imprisoned by the Romans. That he was in danger.

And she probably prayed and prayed, begged God to take care of her son. Her child. Her baby. She was restless, trying to find ways to get to him.

She probably kept her faith and tried to keep a strong belief in God. After all, He's the creator, supreme being that would help keep His son safe.

And then she sees it, the verdict delivered by the hand of Pilate. Her son must die on a cross. And I imagine her faith waver, thinking that no, it has to be a mistake. God will save him. He has to. Her son is not only the savior but also an innocent man.

Yet there he was. Carrying a cross. A crown of thorns over his forehead, the same she had kissed goodnight so many times before. His frame holding the heavy cross, the same frame she had hugged goodbye, probably less than a month ago. His back bloodied by the lashes that the Romans delivered onto him, the same back she rubbed to take the burps out when he was a baby.

And God doesn't help him. He doesn't intervene. He doesn't save her precious little boy. He doesn't hear her begging.

They crucified him, they put nails through his wrists, blood dripping down, the same blood she has running through her veins. And she hears him wail in pain, but she can't hug him and tell him he'll be fine.

She sees him up there, suffering, barely conscious for three consecutive days. Three days when the Romans poked him with a spear, cutting the same ribs, she probably massaged when he was sick as a kid.

And I honestly believe that she would've lost all her faith. She wailed in pain and despair, screaming to the sky in anger, clutching her heart because her baby, the supposed savior, was dead. They took him from her.

She had given her body, her milk, and now her tears, to a God that could not even bother to give her son a merciful end, to take his pain away. She gave everything of her and still lost him.

So I don't think she would've kept being faithful to God or even keep believing in Him. He used her, and it was only then, only when she could see her son being tortured, that she started realizing it.

Birth & Death of Christ

The Virgin of the Lilies † Pietra by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

I want this to be publicly available everywhere♡

All my veiling styles so far!

(Please ignore the second one it was a failed attempt)

I used to see you with my heart

This is the first time, that I see you with my eyes. For the first time, my hands don't tremble when you're sitting next to me. For the first time, I don't feel like I'm flying. It is the first time that I realize, you're much shorter than the sky of my dreams.

Lets agree on me loving you from a distance, And you being closer to my heart than my veins. And me being a stranger to whom you tell your troubles, And you being to my heart, the sweetest and dearest lover.

| Nizar Qabbani

You greet others with love,

while

I'm the one longing for you.

I ask you to agree with me

that a scar is never ugly.

Those who create scars want you to think otherwise.

But you and I have to make a pact to stand up to them.

Because from my experience,

Scars mean 'I survived'.

What is life?

Dostoevsky: It's Hell

Socrates: It's an infestation

Aristotle: It is the mind

Nietzsche: It is strength

Marx: It is the conviction

Schopenhauer: It's suffering

Einstein: It is knowledge

Stephen Hopkins: It is hope

Kafka: The Endings

And you, what is your definition of life?