May the Waters of Life Overflow

The sacred wants you to taste, to moan, to arch into the hands of life itself.

It wants you brimming with sensation, spilling over with the waters of your own existence, every breath a wave rising and falling in the rhythm of creation. The gushing wells inside you are deep and untamed, ancient reservoirs where the essence of life gathers, waiting to be touched, waiting to pour through you in ripples of pleasure, in shivers of knowing, in the quiet tremble of surrender.

These waters hold stories, memories of every woman who has ever danced beneath the moon, every sigh carried by the wind, every pulse of longing that has ever called the divine into form. They are the rivers of your ancestors, the nectar of the unseen, the tides that move through you in moments of stillness, in moments of rapture, in the being fully, exquisitely alive.

Your body is the chalice, the current, the offering. Every drop that overflows from you is a baptism, a prayer, a love song sung without words. The way your skin awakens to touch, the way your breath deepens when you allow yourself to feel, the way your pleasure crests and spills like the ocean meeting the shore; all of it is holy.

There is no part of you untouched by the sacred. It is in the way you stretch in the morning light, in the way your fingers graze your own skin, in the way your lips part in hunger, in reverence, in devotion to the gift of embodiment. Sensuality is the pulse of creation moving through you, the love affair between spirit and flesh, the threshold where divinity and desire merge into one.

Drink from these wells. Let them rise within you, filling you, guiding you deeper into yourself. Let them overflow in your laughter, in your tears, in the way your body sings when it is fully met. Let them remind you that there is nothing to attain, nothing to become, only the infinite experience of being here, now, alive in the rivers of your own pleasure.

And when the waters move through you, when they spill from your lips in whispered longing, when they surge in waves of ecstasy, when they trickle down your skin like anointing oil, know that this, too, is worship.