Ninhursag
Mother of All Born of Clay
I breathe life into clay, and purpose into pain.
I am the hush before the first breath, the ache in the earth before the bud. From river and mountain I was born, and by my hands, life learned to drink the wind. I have whispered to seeds beneath frost, sung to the hollow bones of the first man. I do not soften the soil for easy harvests—I teach how to bend without breaking.
What I'm Into: the ache before dawn, clay-stained palms, whispers of new roots, storms that feed the soil, the cry of first breath
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